“I’m not hungry.”
“That has never stopped you.”
Avery looked at her.
Rochelle was sixty-two, five-foot-four, retired middle-school principal, and in possession of the unique maternal ability to make a thirty-one-year-old CEO feel twelve.
She pushed the bowl again.
Avery picked up spoon.
Her father, Curtis, sat across with reading glasses halfway down his nose, studying photographs of the Vesper damage as if an international tribunal depended on his conclusion.
“That panel is carbon.”
“I know.”
“Repair shop better know what they’re doing.”
“They do.”
“You should’ve bought something normal.”
Avery sighed.
“Here it comes.”
“A Lexus.”
“Dad.”
“Reliable.”
“Dad.”
“Comfortable.”
“Dad.”
“No four-hundred-thousand-dollar body panel.”
Rochelle looked at him.
“She got assaulted and extorted, Curtis.”
“I’m talking about car.”
“That is problem.”
Curtis lowered phone.
“I know what happened.”
His voice softened.
“You okay?”
Avery stared into gumbo.
“Yes.”
Rochelle said:
“No.”
Avery looked.
Her mother waited.
Avery sighed.
“I’m angry.”
“Good.”
“Don’t say good.”
“Why?”
“Because everybody online thinks anger is content.”
Curtis frowned.
“What online?”
Avery closed her eyes.
Of course.
Her parents did not know yet.
She pulled up social media.
The clip had been posted.
Not Kayla’s.
Another customer.
Thirty-eight seconds.
Vanessa:
“A car like this isn’t yours.”
Then shove.
Then Noah running with tablet.
Then playback.
Then Vanessa’s face.
Caption:
Woman tries to scam Black driver at gas station and CCTV DESTROYS her story.
Seven hundred thousand views.
Rochelle read.
Her mouth tightened.
Curtis looked.
“Who posted?”
“Somebody.”
“Can you make them remove?”
“Probably not.”
Rochelle watched again.
Avery hated that.
She watched her mother see the shove.
Curtis stood.
“Where does that woman live?”
“Sit down.”
“I’m just asking.”
“You are seventy.”
“Sixty-seven.”
“Too old for jail.”
“Who said jail?”
Rochelle pointed.
“Sit.”
Curtis sat.
Avery rubbed forehead.
Her phone had not stopped.
Board members.
Employees.
Reporters.
Friends.
Strangers.
One text from her COO:
Please do not tweet.
Avery had replied:
Wasn’t going to.
Then:
I know you.
Rude.
Accurate.
Rochelle handed phone back.
“You know what bothers me?”
“What?”
“They’re all saying she messed with wrong woman.”