“Sign in to Facebook.” This sharp command stuns me. The man sitting across from me is not the warm, easygoing Mike I thought I knew.
“Mike, listen to me.” A tremor runs through me, one that has been all too familiar this past week. “An account exists, but I didn’t create it, and I don’t have the password.”
He exhales loudly. “Fine, I’ll get to it through mine.” He turns my laptop toward him and begins stabbing at the keys. “It’s beyond inappropriate, Allie. It’s completely unprofessional,” he says as he types. “And cruel to boot. Do you have any idea how much damage you’ve caused?”
He spins the laptop around. Facing me is one of the photos that I took of Sarah Ramirez the other day, one that I discarded for being unflattering.
I scroll down and see several more.
Sarah with a twisted sneer on her face, her belly fat flopping onto the pink velvet chaise.
Sarah with her eyes half-open, half-closed, her thighs a map of stretch marks and cellulite.
Below that, the caption reads, “I’m not a magician. How am I supposed to make this look good?”
The viciousness of the words hits me in my gut. It sickens me that anyone would think I would write that.
Heather, my neighbor, pops into my head. She’s on Facebook. She’ll have seen this, and if she hasn’t, Sarah is bound to tell her about it. What was it that Sarah said to me? That Heather was like a sister to her?
Something is gnawing at me. Then I remember—I’ve never figured out whether Heather took that photo of me at the pool or if she saw who did.
And of course, Heather has keys to our house.
Crazy. Heather was the warmest person I’d met in our neighborhood. She baked us blueberry muffins when we first moved in. And anyway, what would be her connection to Paul Adamson? My mind is spinning.
“The first step is you need to take these posts down,” Mike says. The disgust in his eyes sends a chill through me.
“I can’t.” I bite my cheek to stop from crying. “It’s not my account, but I’ve contacted Facebook.”
“Sarah Ramirez wants this down by the end of the day, or she’s going to sue.”
“Let me talk to her, Mike. I can fix this.”
“Don’t, Allie! She doesn’t want to hear from you!”
“I know how this looks, Mike. But I did not post these.”
“I’m trying to talk her down off the ledge, but obviously, the first move is you need to take these photos down.”
“Are you listening? I didn’t post them.” I slam my open hand on the table, making the sugar bowl jump. “Someone must have hacked into my laptop and posted these pictures.”
He takes a red USB thumb drive out of his coat pocket and plugs it into my laptop. “I’m downloading all the photos you took as an employee of the Mike Chau Studio.”
Tears wet my eyes, and I bite down hard on my lower lip to stop from crying. Not here at Drip, in front of Mike.
“Don’t bother trying to get into our databases remotely. We’ve changed the passwords,” he says. “You’re lucky I’m not calling the police. Now, tell me—what’s going on with Valerie Simmons? You’re supposed to shoot her when, exactly?”
I shake my head. “It’s not happening. She canceled.”
“Canceled? Tell me she wants to reschedule, Allie.”
I don’t speak.
“Christ, Allie. This is my business you’re ruining, you know that? That’s my name on the front door. Do you even care?”
“I can explain.”
He holds up a hand to silence me and turns his attention to the progress bar on the computer screen. Silently, we watch it go from zero to one hundred percent as all the photos are transferred. It’s like watching my professional life dissipate before my eyes. Then, for good measure, he moves all the files to the trash and empties it. Mike pulls out the flash drive and shuts the laptop. Then he looks past my shoulder and nods. I spin around to see the new girl, Rebecca, clomp across the café toward us, as ungainly as a newborn colt. She plops a white banker’s box on the floor near my feet. A framed photo of Mark, Cole, and me sticks out of the top.
I turn back to face Mike. “What’s going on?”
“What’s going on is you’ve been terminated, Allie. Effective immediately.”
36
My heart pounds as I stand under the vertical sign spelling POLICE affixed to a modern, nondescript office building. It’s not just that I’ve been fired; my dreams for opening my own studio are shattered. The photography world is small; everyone talks. I doubt I could get a job as an assistant after this. I’ve violated a cardinal rule—betraying the trust of a client. And not just any client—sweet Sarah, riddled with insecurities about how she looked. I cringe remembering how I promised the pictures would be beautiful and not embarrass her. She must hate me, and I don’t blame her.
I need help. And as awful as dealing with the police has been this last week, they may be the only ones who can provide it. I call Artie Zucker, but his assistant says he’s in court and puts me through to his voice mail.
“Hi, Artie. It’s Allie Ross. I know you said not to talk to the police without you, but I need to report some online harassment. I won’t talk about Rob Avery or anything to do with that, but I’ve been fired from my job because of false social media postings, and I’m sorry, but I just can’t sit here and do nothing—”
Beeeep. A woman’s automated voice asks me if I am satisfied with my message or want to rerecord it. I leave it as is and enter the station.
Inside, I am directed to the third floor, where I give my name and reason for being here to a surly, older man in uniform and take a seat in a molded plastic chair. I tell myself not to think about the last time I was here,
