Page 25 of Everyone Is Lying to You

Dead silence, even from his biggest fans. They must know this is the wrong crowd for him to preach this kind of gospel to.

“I don’t think he knows what this conference is about,” Katie says, not even in a whisper.

“To be fair…it is called MomBomb,” I mutter. “It’s fairly innocuous. It could be about any number of things. It could be about your pelvic floor or promoting nuclear energy.”

“The women in this room command billions in advertising,” she shoots back. “It’s a business conference.”

“Still sort of a dumb name. Like Marsden,” I say, mostly to myself, before turning my attention back to him.

“You all chose to quit your jobs and focus on the most important thing in the world. Being a wife and mother.”

“No, we didn’t,” someone yells.

“We are running companies here,” another chimes in.

Marsden is slightly shaken but undeterred, like a robot vacuum programmed to continue moving forward despite running into a brick wall.

“Sure you may be doing your little side hustles and posting your cute pictures and videos. But your true dedication is to your husbands and those little angels. And that’s where my new innovative app that you can find on the phones comes in. It’s called Stay. Yes, Stay. For all youstay-at-home moms. This app will have everything you need to keep staying and momming and loving those little ones.”

“I know words are coming out of his mouth, but they don’t seem to be doing what words usually do,” Katie says. “None of it makes sense.”

Before he can explain what exactly Stay does, something whizzes by the side of Marsden’s head.

“Was that a waffle?” I ask.

“I think a petite pancake,” Katie says. “The Dutch kind.”

Marsden is a professional baseball player. He has excellent reflexes. But even he can’t dodge the deluge of pastries that are suddenly being slung his way.

“I think some of these women played softball in college,” Katie says admiringly, as she picks up a croissant from her own plate and underhands it toward the podium.

Marsden stands there in disbelief.Why are these women, these moms, so angry? What could possibly enrage these tender creatures in such a profound way?his confused expression begs. And then he says out loud what’s in his brain.

“I am honoring you. I am venerating you.”

“You are a condescending prick,” one of the moms I recognize from outside the elevator yesterday wails. “I made three times my husband’s salary last year and now he works for me. Who do you think you’re talking to?”

A splash of vanilla custard drips down Marsden’s cheek, forming an obscene trickle. You can feel the energy pulsating through the entire space. It’s contagious, to be honest…and electric. I want to throw a croissant too but my plate is empty. Even while pastries sail through the air Marsden still has an idiotic smile plastered on his face and his shoulders thrown back with the true confidence of a decently attractive white man who has never been told no.

Suddenly there’s a loud thud. We all turn to see men in uniforms streaming through the now open doors.

The police have arrived.

Chapter Eight

Lizzie

The cops bumble their way into the ballroom. By the looks on their faces they’re bewildered by the room of well-coiffed women chucking pastries.

As one of the officers approaches the stage they step on a freshly thrown jelly donut. Its electric red insides squirt out like a spray of blood across the ballroom’s tasteful beige carpet. Soon the whispers all blend together to form a buzz of locusts. More than a few women hold their phones aloft, no doubt live streaming it all to their audiences of millions.

Everything is content.

Finally, the cop makes it to the microphone. His ruby-red-jelly-donut footprints trail him the entire way. He has to bump Marsden away from the mic.

“Is Rebecca Sommers here? Mrs. Sommers.” There’s a pointed emphasis on theMrs.,or maybe I imagine it. Everyone cranes their necks to look for Bex, but I know for sure she’s not here. I’vebeen searching for her the whole morning. And after a beat or two of silence the officer knows it too.

“Has anyone seen Rebecca Sommers this morning?” Disdain drips from his tone as he says her name. I looked around as eagerly as everyone else. A sense of dread flushes through me when the cop repeats his question. What do they want with Bex?

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