Page 32 of Everyone Is Lying to You

I was in the thick of postpartum with Ollie. I’d only just started back at work a few weeks earlier and I remember the intensity of my milk coming in as I edited the story. My shirt was soaked before I could get to the bathroom with a useless hand pump. I hadn’t slept in weeks. The baby had colic; the toddler had strep. Someone needed me during every minute of every hour of every day. I sat on the toilet then and bawled, and for the briefest of seconds I completely understood why that woman had driven off a cliff. I immediately pinched myself hard enough to make amark and took it back because what kind of woman tempts fate like that?

One of the things we discovered in our reporting is that prior to the incident the mom confided in a co-worker that she wished she hadn’t had such a big family, that she wished someone had given her permission to just stop. It seemed so strange to me at the time, the use of that word—permission.

But in hindsight it’s clear that mother felt trapped. I know in my bones that no matter what she did or didn’t do Bex feels trapped too. It may be one of the only things that I know for sure. But she couldn’t do what that woman did. There’s no way. Even if she’s the one who murdered Grayson in that barn, I don’t actually believe she could hurt her kids. And I have to keep telling myself that as I write this story, because I’m putting myself on the line here in the hopes that I’m right.

I bang away at my keyboard, the words flowing easily. I’m in a groove in a way I haven’t been in a long time, and despite the subject matter, it feels damn good. I love writing, always have.

I take a break when I need a real coffee and not the weak Nespresso crap in the room. I think it’s close to lunchtime and the hotel will probably be packed and Alana wants interviews. I read on the MomBomb Instagram page that the rest of the conference has been canceled as the organizers have been working with the authorities, but people are welcome to stay as long as they need to.

You deserve the space to absorb, reflect, and heal,the organizers wrote.

While writing I’ve been trying to avoid reading what’s already out there, though I know there are a lot of column inches. There are the traditional news stories, but also entire Redditthreads now dedicated to searching for Bex and positing theories about what she’s done. They are cruel and often unhinged. The grammar is appalling. The hatred is real. I remember all of the vitriol and outrage in the comments section of the stories about the mother who killed her children by driving the van off a cliff.

I wonder what happened to this woman to make her so sick and sadistic

She deserves to burn in hell

It was warranted. What she did was horrible. It was also like rubbernecking a car crash because you’re titillated by something appalling. The commenters were desperate and maybe delighted to be so horrified.

For the current Bex story, which someone has dubbed #BloodyFootMama, there’s also a whole tribe of TikTokers who refer to themselves as “citizen journalists,” both men and women who claim they will get to the bottom of this case before the police. Who are these people and how do they get their information? Do they have real jobs? Or is this a real job now?

A news alert comes across my computer screen that Marsden Greer, that stupid ballplayer from yesterday, has made a statement about Grayson Sommers’s murder. But I need coffee before I can watch it.

There’s a knock at the door. Part of me thinks it’s Bex, but I’m only slightly disappointed when I throw it open and see Olivia standing there. She looks no worse for wear than she did yesterday, despite the fact that I know she must have spent much more time than I did in the police station. Her purple suit hasbeen replaced with an electric-blue version in the exact same style and cut. A blue streak is now in her hair. She’s holding out a cup of coffee.

“It’s black, but I brought creamer and sugar. I don’t know how you take it.”

“It’s like you read my mind,” I say. “I was about to head down to get some coffee.”

“Oh, you don’t want to go down there. At least not yet. I think we should talk first.”

I’m slightly hesitant.

“Ten minutes.” She cocks her head and I realize she isn’t asking if she can come in. I step aside and she brushes past me.

“Are we allowed to be talking to one another?” I ask.

“We can do whatever we want.”

“I’m just…I’m sorry. I don’t know the rules here.”

Her voice softens. “I get it. A lot of this is new for me as well. But yes, we can talk safely and legally too. And if you want to get your own lawyer you are more than welcome to.”

“Do you have a lawyer?”

“I am a lawyer.”

“I thought you were an accountant.”

“I’m both. And I happen to be Rebecca’s attorney so there are things I know due to attorney-client privilege that I do not have to share with the police.”

“But you’ll share them with me?”

“Not all of it, no. But some.”

“Did she do it?” I blurt out.

“By ‘it,’ I assume you mean did she murder Grayson Sommers in cold blood in their barn?”

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