That blackmailing, lying bitch. I slammed down my laptop so hard I was afraid I broke it. I was relieved when I flipped it back up and my background—the selfie Nicky took of himself staring into my computer—came back on.
That mindless slut. She knows I'm not dead. She knows I'm watching her. And not from heaven. Even she isn't stupid enough to believe she's blogging to the dead. Maybe she's convinced herself that she imagined my phone call. Maybe she's tried to put it out of her mind. But she can't. She knows.
She can't tell that to her blogosphere moms. She's talking to me, in case I happen to be reading this. That Stephanie assumes I'm reading her blog is maddening, though not half as maddening as her moving in with my husband and son.
She got used to thinking I was dead. She got to like the idea. So much for friendship. For grief. So I'd called to let her know I'm not dead.
My number comes up as out of area. There's no way for her to reach me, except through her blog. She thinks everybody reads her blog. I alone would have a good reason. She probably wishes I were dead. Someone who wants me dead is tucking my son into bed every night and sleeping with my husband.
And she has the nerve to write that this is what I would want? Maybe she is crazy, which means a crazy woman is raising my son.
It pains me to admit that Stephanie was right about how you can never really know anyone. If Stephanie wants to play cat and mouse . . . she can be the mouse. I'll be the cat. That cat is patient. The mouse is afraid. The mouse has reason to be afraid.
Because the cat always wins. The cat is the one who enjoys it.
