Page 18 of Darkwater Lane

It reminds me of Connor all over again. Thinking that I knew him, that we had the kind of relationship where we didn’t keep big secrets. I’d been wrong.

It turns out I was wrong about Lanny as well.

Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I think of all the family dinners we’ve had over the past months when she could have brought this up. How many times had she been sitting there, excitement from a fresh acceptance letter bubbling through her, but she’d remained silent, hiding the news from us? We’d even talked about colleges dozens of times. She said her plan was to start out at the local community college and then decide if she wanted to apply elsewhere down the road.

I hadn’t challenged her on that plan because a part of me had been relieved she wanted to stay so close to home.

Did she just apply to these schools out of curiosity? To see if she could get in? Or is this more than that?

I don’t know whether I want this to be real or not. My heart nearly breaks at the thought of her moving away next year, but it shatters at the idea of her staying and giving up on the opportunities these letters present.

I bury my face in my hands. How am I supposed to bring this up with her? She’ll be furious if she finds out I went digging through her room. Any hope I have of a real, honest conversation would be instantly out the window. There’s no way she’ll open up or trust me again.

I curse under my breath, both mad at myself for snooping and at Lanny for keeping this a secret.

Because of course I can’t stop wondering what else she might be hiding. As much as I wish I could, I can’t let this go. With a sigh of resignation and a pit in my stomach, I scan the rest of her room. I’ll have to search it. Connor’s too. As violative as it feels, I don’t have an option.

This is one of those shitty aspects of being a parent. Because the reality is, I’m not my kids’ friend, I’m their parent. That means making the difficult choices to keep them safe, even when I know it might end up pissing them off or hurting their feelings.

Slowly, methodically, I make my way through her room. Checking the back of her closet, the pages of her books, coat pockets, beneath dresser drawers.

Thankfully, I find nothing of interest. That changes when I switch on her computer.

Of course, it’s password protected, but every time I give my kids any kind of electronic equipment, I make sure to install a master key that gives me access. I override the protections she’s put in place and start hunting through her files and checking her search history.

I note that she uses a VPN and a browser that dumps the cache whenever she closes a window. Smart girl. But no data is ever truly erased. Within five minutes, I find her private Instagram page.

My heart sinks. “Lanny, no,” I murmur to myself. I’ve told my kids again and again and again that they’re not allowed on social media. I know it’s hard for them, especially in today’s world, but the risks are too great.

I thought they listened. I thought they understood.

Apparently not.

7

GWEN

The sense of betrayal cuts deep. I scroll through Lanny’s Instagram feed with a pit in my stomach. At least she’s been smart about her posts. She uses a fake name and bio. None of the photos include identifiable images that could tie them to our family or even to Knoxville. In fact, most of what she posts are artistic shots of everyday objects. I have to admit, she’s pretty good.

How could I have not noticed her taking these pictures? How did I miss her talent?

I slump back in her desk chair. Several of her lipsticks and an eyebrow pencil are scattered next to the keyboard. A stick of deodorant sits next to them.

You could put me in a crowded room with my eyes covered, and I’d be able to find my daughter based on scent alone. The unmistakable mix of leave-in conditioner, body butter, lip gloss, and Sour Patch Kids.

I could recognize her voice out of thousands. I would know the slightest brush of her hand against mine.

There’s so much that I know about my daughter that’s imprinted in my very being. Her DNA still swims in my blood.

But there’s so much more that I don’t know. That I didn’t even realize I didn’t know.

The realization is crushing.

I open the Instagram menu and spend way too long navigating through the settings to find the option to delete the account. Then, I hesitate. The smart move would be to press the button. I forbade Lanny from being on social media. That, plus the fact that she’s still seventeen and not a legal adult, gives me the absolute right to terminate any account of hers I come across.

She’ll be furious. She’ll hate me. But I’ve dealt with her rage before. I faced it every time I told her it was time to pack up and pick a new name. If there’s one thing that animates Lanny, it’s a sense of injustice or unfairness.

The difference is, she’s not a kid anymore. As evidenced by the stack of college acceptance letters stashed under her bed, she’s perilously close to becoming an adult. If she decides to go away to college, I’ll no longer be there to monitor where she goes, who she talks to, or what she does.

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