Page 75 of There is No Devil

She’s complimentary to my work and the show in general.

But the final paragraph makes my stomach lurch:

I contacted Mara’s mother Tori Eldritch to get her comment on the autobiographical show that references themes of neglect and abuse.

Tori said:

“It’s all lies. Mara had a perfect childhood, anything she could ever want. She was pampered. Spoiled, even. She’ll do anything for attention, she’s always been that way. I took her to so many psychiatrists, but they could never fix her. I don’t call that art. Fantasy, more like. A filthy, deceptive fantasy to slander the people who took care of her. My lawyer says I should sue her for defamation.”

That puts a different spin on the collection of ostensibly personal images.

In speaking to Mara Eldritch, she told me, “Childhood shapes all of us—the events we remember, and even those we don’t.”

Perhaps Mara is leaning hard on those events we “don’t remember.”

I shove the laptop away from me, face burning.

“That fucking CUNT!” I shout.

“Gemma, or your mother?” Cole inquires.

“Both!”

“No one’s going to believe your mother,” Cole says dismissively. “She’s nobody. You’re the one with the microphone.”

I’m still seething, the room spinning around me.

“She can’t let me have anything. She can’t stand what it would mean, if I succeed without her, in spite of her.”

“You already are succeeding,” Cole says serenely. “And she can’t do a damn thing about it.”

* * *

14

Cole

Mara’s mother’s giving interviews.

If Gemma Zhang can find her, so can I.

It’s been too long since I put my online stalking skills to use. I spend an afternoon in my office at the studio, hunting down Tori Eldritch and Randall Pratt.

This is something I’ve been intending to do for some time now. I want to know exactly where those two are living and what they’re up to.

Randall is surprisingly difficult to locate.

I assume somebody other than myself is interested in breaking his kneecaps, because his supposed address was only a rented office space, with no car registered under his name.

I still manage to find a phone number that I’m pretty sure is a working cell.

He answers the second time I call.

“What?”

Rough as a bag of rocks rolling around in the back of a truck—just like Mara said.

The voice I plan to use is clear and friendly, with a slight Midwest twang. The kind of voice designed to disarm Randall without quite mimicking him.

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