Live and learn.”
“Uh-huh.” Scribble, scribble. “Personal animosities?”
“Excuse me?”
“Does anybody hate you, Mrs. Garner? Hate you enough to hurt your daughter?”
What a question. And yet it has occurred to me, of course. Is there someone out there in the world who is angry enough at me to lure Kelly away? After a moment, I say, “No one I can think of.”
“No personal vendettas? How about angry boyfriends? Stalkers?”
That’s easy. “No boyfriends, period. No stalkers that I know of.”
Shane’s eyebrows lift. Men always seem to think that any reasonably attractive single woman under the age of forty is being hounded by suitors. Guys with flowers constantly ringing the doorbell, begging to sweep you off your feet. If only.
“Has Kelly complained of unwanted attention?” he wants to know. “Mentioned someone following her or watching her, or exhibiting menace?”
“No,” I say with a quick head shake. “But to be honest, over the last few hours I’ve been thinking about that a lot. And I’m not sure she’d tell me. Yesterday I’d have sworn on a Bible that Kel would share the important stuff, but today I’m not so sure.”
At that moment her computer chimes.
Shane’s eyes snap to the screen. Beneath his trim, neatly cropped beard his lips turn up in a slight smile.
“Bingo,” he says.
14. Flygirl
My mother put up with a lot. It wasn’t that I was a surly adolescent, not like Kelly, because my pathological shyness extended to the family. We had learned, Mom and I, never to raise our voices in the presence of my father. How to hide in plain sight. But I had my silent, secretive ways, and that probably bothered Mom more than surliness or back talk. What are you thinking? she would ask me, as if she really wanted to know, and I would never say, or mutter something and go hide in my room, or have long phone conversations with Fern where we said nothing much at great length.
Poor Mom. All she wanted were a few clues, a guidepost or two, and I couldn’t or wouldn’t oblige. Now I know my punishment for letting her down, all those years ago. It’s right there on the computer screen: Kelly has a secret life. Or, more accurately, a life she has kept from me, and apparently from her friends as well.
Her user name is flygirl91. The number is, of course, the year of her birth and the “flygirl,” well, to this mother’s ears it sounds slutty somehow. Wild and crazy, at the very least.
“But she swore she didn’t have a page on MySpace!” I wail, staring in horror at all the messages and responses in the files she calls “Facers” and “S-man.”
“She doesn’t,” Shane explains, manipulating the mouse as we scroll through the files. “You don’t have to post a Web page on MySpace to have access to the site. It appears Kelly logged in as a member but never set up an accessible Web site. She seems to have been deeply involved in searching categories for particular types of individuals.”
“Oh my God,” I say, hand to my mouth. “She was trolling.”
Shane chuckles and shakes his head. “I believe it’s called ‘browsing,’ Mrs. Garner. Simply a way to search through the millions of entries for someone you might find interesting. The folks on MySpace often affiliate themselves with groups or common interests. Just like people tend to do in real life.”
The Facers file contains dozens of images of young men, mostly posing with their computers or leaning against their cars. One has his shirt off, showing tattoos on his arms and chest. Another, his new nipple ring. There are several motorcycles and a hang glider proudly displayed by boys who look ready to die at a moment’s notice. All of it heart attack material for the mother of a teenage girl.
“This is interesting,” Shane says, clicking on the photo of the kid with the nipple ring.
“It must have hurt,” I say, wincing at the very thought.
“No, I mean what’s missing. Your daughter saved this image, but there’s no indication she ever messaged this particular individual.”
“Thank God for that.”
“It’s true for most of these images,” Shane says, making eye contact. “She was culling pictures but not necessarily making herself known to the subjects.”
“But what does it mean?” I ask.
Shane shrugs. “Hard to say. Might just means she liked the pictures. Maybe because they fit her definition of a Facer, whatever that is. Kind of a wise guy, out-there type, maybe? Any thoughts? Have you heard her use the word?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe. The cool words change from day to day, you know?”
“We can Google it later, if it seems to be pertinent. Right now I’ll concentrate on the file contents.”
Shane scrolls through my daughter’s secret life, or her fantasy life, all of it reduced to thumb-size snapshots. I’m standing over his broad shoulders, close enough to smell his deodorant—kind of a pine scent—aware that under normal circumstances this level of intimacy with a stranger would be, for me, uncomfortable. But these are not normal circumstances. Far from it.
“You think that’s how she met this Seth person?” I ask “Because she saw his picture—his Facer—on the Web site?”
“Yet to be determined,” says Shane, manipulating the keyboard with all ten fingers, a level of typing skill never mastered by yours truly.
“Ah,” he says, as another folder opens. “Here we go. This is linked to a message Kelly mass-mailed to forty-six recipients.”
He deftly places the e-mail in the center of the screen, enlarges the font so we can both read.
Young, aspiring pilot looking for flight instruction. Willing to help with cleaning, maintenance of aircraft. Ready to learn.
I’m too stunned to speak.
“You notice she doesn’t mention her age or gender, other than to say ‘young.’”
“I never knew. Never had any idea.”
“That she wants to learn how to fly?”
“Any of it. Willing to help with cleaning? I can’t even get her to vacuum the hallway! She takes care of her own room, that’s it.”
Ready to learn. The question is, and it breaks my heart to think it, was she ready to learn more than flying? Was this her very clever way to make herself interesting to grown men?
“Four,” Shane announces.
“Four?”
“Responses to that particular e-mail.”
The first
