Page 139 of Porcelain Lies

“No social media,” I remind myself aloud, hovering over the browser. I contemplate scrolling through more baby sites, but I’m getting tired of staring at images of how my uterus is expanding.

I open Google and, on impulse, type Fermont. I half expect the usual page restrictions, but somehow, my search yields results. Perhaps it’s because he was a doctor. My dad’s name pops up several items down the page. A news article from his death.

Doctor Dies in Single-Car Crash

I stare at the headline, remembering my mother’s hysterical words. He was murdered. She was so certain of it. But the police concluded it was an accident and the case was closed.

I click through page after page of auto-generated obituaries. Twenty-three search results — eighteen redundant. TheLos Angeles Timesarticle says he swerved to avoid a coyote. Two paragraphs. Three mentions of his “devoted family”.

My fingers dig into the mouse. “That’s it?” I hiss at the screen. “Coyote. What freaking coyote?”

The police report link winks at me from Dad’s professional association page. Two clicks. Password protected. I slam the laptop shut hard enough to rattle the coffee mug.

My thumbnail picks at the edge of the biomarker bracelet. Through the window, sunlight glints off the swimming pool. Mom’s screams that night replay in my skull —They did this, they killed him!But the police just handed me a business card for grief counseling.

The laptop hums. I flip it open again, jamming my thumbnail against the fingerprint scanner until it beeps angrily. Google Images. Years-old clinic photos of Dad in a lab coat. Then, an image from some ambulance chaser’s blog.

Mangled steel wrapped around a telephone pole. Glass glittering like snowfall across asphalt.

My chest tightens, and I close the tab.

This feels like torture. All these painful memories, with no clear answer. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe he really was murdered and someone is trying to hide it.

I press my forehead against the cool laptop screen, breathing through the tightness in my chest. “Tell me I’m not losing my mind, Boyana.”

“Always were bonkers,”Boyana’s breezy voice floats through my thoughts,“but that’s why I like you.”

A broken laugh escapes as I swipe at tears with my knuckles. I stare at the browser’s lingering search tabs — accident reports overlapping one another until the pages start to merge into a blur.

I’m tired of dead ends. Tired of feeling like I’m facing this all alone. But Mom’s words continue to nag at me, haunting me like ghosts of the past.

Murder.

Can it be true?

An idea begins to form. What if…

Hannah.I bite my lip.Junior secret service agent Hannah.

Boyana’s voice nags from behind my sternum.“Involving her could get you both in trouble.”

I dig my nails into my palm. I’m getting paranoid. Aleksei is OCD about my health, because of the baby. But he won’t do anything to Hannah or me if he finds out I’ve been trying to find out about my father’s death. What harm could it do?

I think of my burner phone tucked in my sock drawer, then glance at the time. 1.58 pm. Too early to call now — someone might interrupt us. Besides, I need to collect my thoughts. Figure out what to tell her. Hannah may be my best friend, but I’ve never discussed my father’s death with her, beyond telling her he’d died in a car accident.

“She’ll think you’re nuts, too,”says Boyana.

I huff out a sigh. Maybe Iamnuts. But what if Mom was right and the truth stays hidden forever? My father’s murderer could be walking around out there, unpunished.

The door handle jiggles.

I jerk up straight in my seat, trying not to look guilty as Imelda — no, Diana — enters with lunch tray in hand.

“Hungry?” she asks.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

I’ll call Hannah tomorrow, and run everything by her. Until then, I’ll bide my time and pretend to be a good little broodmare.

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