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“What the hell is Classmates.com?” I ask.
“A site for old people,” Mom says. “She didn’t see her there, either, but she posted in the message boards, looking to reconnect, or see if anyone knew anything. Couple of hours later she gets a friend request from a Denise Chivington, in Missouri.”
“Chivington?” I repeat, and Mom hands me her phone.
Denise Chivington’s Facebook profile shows a good-looking woman with dark hair smiling directly into the camera, a golden retriever at her side. She’s sitting on the front step of what looks like a suburban dream, with a brass door knocker and glass insets on either side of the front door. I flick through the photos to find an equally attractive husband, a smiling set of twins, and a well-attended backyard barbecue complete with tiki torches.
“Damn, Denise,” I say under my breath. “You did okay.”
“Well,” Mom says somewhat dubiously. “It’s Facebook, so everything looks perfect. But—she’s definitely not dead.”
“And that makes me definitely a bitch,” I say, handing Mom’s phone back.
“You get one more swear word today, Lydia,” Mom says sternly. “One more. Use it wisely. Now—what did you do?”
“I may have insinuated that Dover Jamison killed Denise Halverson and then interrogated him in front of his niece and really, really pissed both of them off.”
Mom’s head is shaking back and forth, her mouth falling open a little farther with every swing. “You—you talked to Dover Jamison? When? HOW?!”
“I uh . . . went to the prison with Bristal and MacKenzie this weekend instead of shopping.”
Her head stops moving. “Mother. Fucker.”
“Whoa, Mom!” I say. “That’s your one for the day. And it’s a solid!”
“Don’t make jokes with me, Lydia Helen Chass,” she says, whipping out the middle name. “You lied to us, and you went to a prison? To talk to Dover Jamison, of all people?”
“Yes.” I nod. “And I’m sorry, but I thought . . . I really thought he might have killed Denise.”
“And you were really wrong,” Mom says, holding up her phone and flashing the smiling woman with the golden retriever at me. “So you sat down with a felon for no reason. And specifically—” She takes a deep breath, and I can tell she doesn’t want to say his name again. “Him?”
I contemplate shooting back at her that I did learn something. Mainly that Dad is his lawyer, and I’ve got a few questions about that, but given the complicated history she has with Dover, I figure any more questions I have about him should probably be addressed to Dad . . . but minus the fact that I’ve met him and snuck out of the house in order to do so.
“It was stupid, Mom. I know, okay?”
“Stupid is one thing; reckless is another,” she says. “I’ve got my full-mom face on right now. Lydia—please don’t go into maximum-security prisons without asking me first.”
“I can make this promise,” I say, after considering it. “But what’s the staying power on this? Do I still have to check in when I’m, like, forty?”
“Forty-three,” she insists as Steven reaches up to pat her face. She dodges his paw, then kisses the pads in apology.
“Please don’t tell Dad?” I whisper.
“Oh, your father will never know this happened,” she says, crossing herself even though we’re Protestant. “He’d shit a brick.”
“That’s two, Mom,” I say.
“It’s been a long day,” she shoots back. “I just found out my daughter taunted an abusive man.”
“And slandered him, technically,” I add.
“Yeah, that’s another reason to not tell your Dad,” Mom says, now fanning herself. “And I can’t imagine how Bristal reacted. I’m surprised she didn’t take a swing at you.”
“She definitely thought about it. MacKenzie stepped in between us.”
“She’s a good friend,” Mom says.
“So is Bristal,” I say, meaning it. “And I threw her under the bus.”
