The Perfect Family Read online

  “How would they know?”

  “Ms. Harris pulled me out of class! When I came back, I was upset. They’ll figure it out.”

  “Kids get pulled out of class for all sorts of reasons.”

  “Yeah. And somehow, we always find out the truth.” Her eyes were shiny, and I wanted to hold her, but I knew she’d push me away. “Why didn’t you listen to me? Everything’s going to get worse. A million times worse.”

  She thundered down the stairs, back to her basement lair.

  * * *

  THAT NIGHT, I lay in bed listening to the rain on the roof and replaying my decision to speak to my daughter’s principal. It was what any concerned, caring parent would have done. Tarryn was sullen and secretive and she was being harassed by menacing boys in the night. It was terrifying, for all of us. It was my job to protect her.

  She felt betrayed. I understood that. But there was no way for other students to know what was said in her counselor’s office unless Tarryn told them herself. Ms. Harris was a consummate professional, used to dealing with delicate matters. Although… she hadn’t done a great job of hiding her intent with Tarryn. And the video had been circulated amongst several teachers.…

  Thomas was snoring softly beside me. He’d backed up my decision to visit Tarryn’s principal, told me not to worry. “She’ll get over it,” he’d said. “You did it because you love her. She knows that.” But I wasn’t so confident. My relationship with my daughter couldn’t handle much more strife.

  My mind was still racing when the rock smashed through the window.

  Eli

  THE THIRSTY RAVEN was so slow that night, that my boss let me go a half hour early. It was pouring when I caught the bus, but when I hopped off at the Wildwood Trail stop on the edge of Washington Park, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. The heavily forested section of the park was scenic during the day, but spooky at night. Its looming trees and dense foliage could cover all sorts of nefarious activity. A girl’s body had been found there when I was a kid. But I didn’t feel unnerved. I was tall and strong. And Arlington Heights was quiet, safe, and asleep.

  I walked through the silent streets, past the unlit mansions and upscale homes. Our house would be dark, too. It was eleven twenty, past my parents’ strict eleven o’clock bedtime. My sister might be awake, but any light shining from her room would be extinguished by her blackout curtains. She stayed up late, like me, but she wasn’t gaming. She was probably on Reddit or watching YouTube videos that made her hate society. But as I neared my house, I saw that the porch light was on. And my dad, in pajama pants and a T-shirt, was nailing a board across the windowpane in our front door.

  Shit.…

  “What happened?” I asked as I walked up. But I knew. My mom should not have gone to see Principal Gorman. Tarryn had been right.

  “They came back,” Dad muttered, banging in the last nail. “This is getting way out of hand.”

  “What did they throw?”

  “See for yourself.” He pointed with the hammer at a stone the size of a child’s fist. “It went right through the glass. Thank god no one was standing there.”

  “Jesus.”

  He dropped the hammer to his side. “Listen. I need your help with something.”

  “What?”

  “Do you work tomorrow night?”

  “Yeah. I work all week… I have Saturday night off.”

  “We’ll do it Saturday, then.”

  “Do what?”

  He leaned in and lowered his voice. “We have to make this stop, Eli. That rock could have seriously hurt someone. Your mom or your sister.”

  “You can’t beat these kids up,” I responded.

  “We’re not going to beat them up. We’re just going to scare them. Make them think we’ll hurt them if they don’t stop bothering us.” He saw the reluctance in my eyes, so he continued, “These kids have no respect for the police. Or for their principal. They think they’re untouchable.”

  “They are untouchable. Because they’re kids. They’re not going to go to jail for throwing eggs and rocks. And they can’t be expelled for behavior off school grounds.”

  My dad’s voice was even lower “They’re minors… and you’re still a minor.”

  He wanted me to do the dirty work so that he didn’t get into trouble. He was using me, and I said as much.

  “God, no, Eli. I wouldn’t let you get into any trouble. I swear.” He ran his free hand through his hair. “I don’t know what else to do. Your mom is really stressed. Your sister’s upset. Enough is enough.”

  In the porch light, I could see how old and worn down he looked. He’d always been confident and gregarious, so sure of himself. But these kids were beating him. They were winning. And he didn’t like it.

  “I’m going to bed,” I said, “I’m exhausted.”

  But I knew I wouldn’t sleep.

  Tarryn

  IT WAS WRONG to feel smug when I heard the glass breaking, but I did. Maybe not smug, just validated. I’d told my mom she had made things worse by going to the school, and I’d been proven right. Kids from Centennial High were attacking us, that much was clear. But who was putting them up to it? And why?

  I’d gone upstairs to survey the damage… and my mom’s sheepish expression. But when I saw her standing there in her robe, her face pale and drawn, I’d felt no satisfaction. She was clearly stressed—and frightened, staring intently at her phone. As I walked up behind her, I saw the attack playing out on her tiny screen: a group of faceless boys at the end of the driveway; several of them stepped forward and hurled rocks; the sound of breaking glass as one stone hit its mark. When Mom sensed my presence, she’d turned toward me, her eyes shiny.

  “Tarryn, I’m sorry.” It was barely a whisper.

  I didn’t need to say I told you so. She felt bad enough.

  My dad walked in from the garage, wearing pajama pants and work boots. He was carrying a hammer and a square of wood. He looked as exhausted as my mom did.

  “Viv, can you call the cops? We need to file a report.” And then to me, “Go back to bed, honey. They’re gone.”

  There had been a knot of emotion in my throat as I descended the stairs. It was guilt. My mom and dad were upset, weary, falling apart. Dad was a bit overweight; what if he had a heart attack? Would it be my fault? If this harassment was about me, I’d find out who was behind it. And I’d make it stop.

  Even if I hadn’t been trying to stay awake, I couldn’t have slept. Adrenaline was coursing through me from the attack and, of course, my dad was hammering a board over the broken window. I watched TikTok videos until I heard my brother come home. He and my dad spoke in soft voices on the front porch. When I finally heard the creak of the stairs, it was after midnight. That’s when I got ready.

  My regulars would be waiting for me; they always were. I got over a hundred views a night. There were about ten clients who spent the entire session with me and paid for the privilege. They were the ones I felt obligated to, they were the reason I showed up. Even when I was tired. Or grumpy. Or when sociopathic shitheads were attacking my house. My community needed me. We had real conversations, and they asked real questions. Yeah, I knew that they probably had their dicks out of their pants while they asked about my math test, or my favorite ice cream flavor, but that didn’t mean they didn’t care.

  In my wig, makeup, and lingerie, I turned on the camera.

  “Hey, guys. Did you miss me?”

  It was my standard greeting. And I liked watching the affirmative messages roll in. Bender50 was there, and yes, he had missed me. A lot. He was a caregiver for his elderly mom and didn’t get out much. DeeDee1 and DeeDee2 were online, as usual. They were a married couple who’d suffered several heartbreaking miscarriages. Zon5 was wheelchair-bound and had a platonic relationship with his wife (or so he said). Our time together was the highlight of his day, he’d told me, more than once. Pardyguy was a new immigrant from Bangladesh and having trouble meeting women. And then, an unfamiliar name
.

  LitLad: I missed you. You cut too many classes.

  The message provoked a queasy feeling in my stomach combined with a perverse sort of excitement. It was him. I knew what I had to do.

  Private conversations were the best way to make money in camming, but I rarely had them. The one-on-one chat rooms were where you were expected to do the kinky stuff: masturbate, pee on camera, and much, much worse. I wasn’t into it. And my viewers were my friends, my community. I didn’t want to know about their perversions. Like, I knew they had them—they spent every night chatting to a seventeen-year-old girl in a bra—but I didn’t want the gory details.

  Swallowing my apprehension, I direct-messaged LitLad.

  Want to go private?

  The normal response to that invitation would have been: How much? A private session could cost from one hundred to ten thousand tokens ($10 to $800), depending on what the hostess was willing to do. I wasn’t going to do anything but interrogate this asshole, but he didn’t know that. His response came quickly.

  OK

  He didn’t even ask about money.

  Assuring my viewers that I’d be back soon, I shut down the group feed. I was alone with this person who knew me, who was harassing me. “Do you want to turn your camera on?” I asked.

  No

  No surprise there.

  “So,” I said, folding my arms across my scantily clad chest, “you seem to know me.…”

  The response was instant: Maybe

  “Where did we meet? Do we go to school together?”

  The same word appeared on the screen:

  Maybe

  I took it as a yes. “Tell me who you are.”

  No

  “Why not? What are you afraid of?”

  The cursor blinked at me for a few seconds. And then…

  I could get into a lot of trouble.

  And so could you.

  “What does that mean?” I snapped. “Are you threatening me?”

  Ur playing a dangerous game, baby doll.

  The condescending words enraged me. Who was this creep to tell me I was in danger? From what—him? The delinquents outside? And then my parents’ wan, exhausted faces flitted through my mind. This guy could be toying with me and my family.

  “Are you behind the attacks on my house?”

  Nothing.

  “We’re fucking over it, okay? You’d better stop, or we’ll catch you, and my dad and brother will beat the shit out of you.”

  Still no response. I leaned into the camera, spoke through gritted teeth. “Don’t be a fucking coward. Tell me who you are.”

  I waited, my pulse pounding, my face hot and red and twisted with rage. And then the name disappeared.

  LitLad was gone.

  Thomas

  IT WAS NOT a good day to be meeting with potential new clients. I’d had about three hours’ sleep, my nerves were shot, and I was in a foul mood. But I was in no position to turn down a referral. A tech executive was relocating to Portland. She was looking for a large family home for herself, her husband, and their two kids, who would be joining her at the end of the summer. I was the perfect realtor for her. As a dad, I knew all the best schools, the safest and friendliest communities, the best sports fields and recreation centers. We were meeting at a café near her office in twenty minutes. I had just enough time to print an exclusive realtor contract. Might as well be optimistic.

  The e-mail came in as the last page was printing. I looked at the notification in the bottom right corner of my screen and told myself to ignore it. I had just enough time to grab the contract and get to my meeting. But my hand was already moving my mouse, already opening the message… just in case it was from Chanel. And it was.

  Thomas,

  35K. Today.

  Or this goes to your wife.

  Beneath it was Viv’s company e-mail address.

  I opened the attached photo on my phone. (I couldn’t have my shame filling my monitor, visible to anyone who passed by my cubicle.) It was the picture of me, flat on the bed, with Chanel astride me. There was a chance I could explain this to Viv. I would tell her I’d passed out, that I hadn’t participated in that moment, that I’d been set up. It was all true. And the photograph backed me up. It meant I could continue my negotiations.

  The best tactic, according to my business books, was to offer 65 percent of your target price. They also recommended using precise, non-round numbers to add credibility to the offer. So, I wrote back:

  I’m afraid that’s impossible. I’ll give you $16,259.

  In one month.

  Chanel would be insulted, and rightly so. She’d fire back with a figure like $30,000. I’d go up to $22,000. It would seem like a significant jump, but it was all part of my strategy. Eventually, after my meeting with the tech executive, we’d get to $25,000, paid to her in three weeks. I would have achieved my goal. I got up and headed to the shared printer.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket. Pulling out the device, I opened the message, prepared to read Chanel’s angry counteroffer. But to my chagrin, I found that she had not revised her offer at all.

  35K. Today.

  Or these photos go to your kids.

  There were two photos attached. Glancing around to ensure I was alone, I clicked on the first one. It was the same photo she planned to send to Viv. If I could explain it to my wife, I could explain it to my children, as horrible and shameful as that would be. But when I opened the second attachment, I saw the close-up image of that angry red bite mark.

  My stomach churned, sending a sour taste into the back of my throat. What would my children think when they saw that injury? Would they believe that their father was capable of such vile abuse? That he would violate a woman in such a brutal and disgusting way? Could I convince them that I had not hurt Chanel? That I was being set up and framed? Eli might listen to reason, but Tarryn wouldn’t. I knew that for sure. I felt a wave of panic, sweat pricking my forehead and the back of my neck. But then I noticed what Chanel had not included.

  The kids’ e-mail addresses.

  Viv’s contact details were easily accessible. She had her own business with all her information on her website. But how would Chanel be able to send the photos to my children? They rarely used e-mail, except for school projects. I didn’t even have those addresses. We communicated strictly by text. Chanel was bluffing. And I would call her on it.

  How will you send these to my kids?

  Do you have their e-mail addresses?

  She responded instantly. With Tarryn’s and Eli’s Instagram handles.

  Even though we’d instructed the kids to keep their accounts private, Chanel could still direct-message them. All my son and daughter would have to do was accept the message request. And then, they would be able to see the shameful photos of their father.

  Fuck.

  Suddenly, I heard a familiar voice coming from the front of the open-plan office. “Hi, there. You must be Emma.”

  It was Viv. What was my wife doing here? It’s not like she never came to the office unannounced, but—wait a minute, she never did come to the office unannounced. My schedule was so erratic that it would have been pointless to visit me here without calling first. But she was here now. I hurried toward the reception area.

  “I’ve been wanting to meet you,” Emma was saying, as I barreled up to them. “Your staging work is really inspiring. I told Thomas—”

  “Hi, hon.” My voice sounded high-pitched. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was in the neighborhood,” Viv said, her smile cool. “I thought we could have lunch.”

  “God, I’d love to, but I’m meeting a potential client.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “It is, yeah.” I swallowed my anxiety. “Let me grab some stuff from my desk and I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “Sure.”

  At my cubicle, I pulled out my phone, my hands clammy, slippery with stress. I looked at the last e-mail from Chanel, with my kids’ Inst
agram handles, and I knew what had to be done. All the negotiation books said not to cave in. They said to hold firm, wait until the other side countered before increasing your offer. But these authors weren’t trying to save their marriages and their relationships with their children. Their personal and professional reputations weren’t on the line. Business negotiations and blackmail, I realized, were two very different things.

  I can send you 10K now, I wrote, my thumbs trembling on the tiny keyboard. I’m closing on a house in three weeks. I can give you the other 25K then.

  Please, Chanel. It’s the best I can do.

  With shaking hands, I grabbed the contracts, my wallet, and my keys, and hurried out to meet Viv.

  In the elevator, my wife said, “Emma seems nice.”

  “Emma? Yeah, she’s great.”

  “Getting married soon.”

  “Yep.”

  What was going on with my wife? Her demeanor was cool and suspicious. But how could she know about the negotiations taking place on my phone? And if she already knew, why was I giving Chanel any money at all? The elevator door opened, releasing me from the subtle but distinct tension. We walked to Viv’s Volvo, parked on the street.

  “Let’s go for dinner one night this week,” I said. “Just the two of us.”

  “I don’t want to leave the kids alone with those hooligans out there.”

  “Right, of course.” I rubbed my nose with a knuckle. “Rain check on lunch then?”

  “Sure.”

  She allowed me to kiss her cheek, and then she got into her car and drove away.

  I was going to be late. It was unprofessional, to say the least, and I needed this new client more than ever now. As I hurried into the parking garage, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and checked the email. It was from Chanel.

  Deal, she said.

  A small noise escaped my throat, something between a strangled sob and a sigh of relief. It was done. Handled. Chanel had got what she wanted, but at least I had protected myself.