Page 74 of Fraud
I’d finally fallen asleep around two in the morning, and then my alarm suddenly woke me up at the crack of dawn. That would have been a lifesaver if it weren’t a Saturday. Unable to fall back asleep, I grumbled several curse words under my breath and made my way to the kitchen to make coffee, stopping briefly to turn on the TV.
Nothing was better than a bowl of cereal and some reruns I had queued up in my DVR. I used to love watching Saturday morning cartoons when I was little. Nothing beat a morning where I was snuggled up with my dad while we ate Lucky Charms from the box and laughed at Wile E. Coyote trying his best to chase down that very quick and nimble bird.
As I passed by the old dining room table, I sighed. Those days were long gone, and all I had were memories.
The sound of the morning news filtered through the apartment as I rummaged through my cupboards. After pouring a box worth of cereal, I waited impatiently for my coffee to brew, stuffing mouthfuls of puffed rice into my mouth.
Finally, I headed for the couch. My eyes were still barely cracked open from the lack of sleep, but I was vaguely happy over my improved situation.
Cereal had healing powers in my opinion.
But not today.
Or at least, not for me.
The moment my attention tuned in on the television, I wished it hadn’t. There was my book—the one I currently had a thousand copies of, sitting in my dining room—plastered all over the news.
“Turning our attention this morning, we’re revisiting a topic many of our viewers have been asking about. Who is Laura Stone? As you may know, Laura Stone is the infamous pen name of The Scandal Chronicles, which has now sold over a million copies worldwide in its short time since being released. And, as fans go crazy over the book, there are just as many wondering who this Laura Stone is.”
I gave a long sigh as the newscasters discussed the many oddities of Laura Stone, such as the fact that she didn’t have any social media pages.
None.
“It’s strange,” one woman said. “Who isn’t on Facebook?”
I raised my hand, knowing it was useless.
“Maybe it’s a man,” someone else commented, making the newscaster laugh. “You never know,” she agreed.
“Great,” I huffed.
Next up was a great big, burly guy, smiling wide for his fifteen seconds of fame, on the side of a street. “I think it’s a convict. You know, someone with life in prison. They’ve got nothing but time on their hands.”
What the actual fuck?
It went on and on, and I couldn’t look away.
Part of me wanted to scream,Me! It’s me!
The rest of me—the rational, responsible side—wanted to run back to bed and hide under the covers. Forever.
“Whoever this very private person is, man or woman, we may never know. After several attempts to contact her team, no one is talking.”
“Yeah, because they know they’ll be sued,” I said out loud between bites of cereal, before finally shutting the TV off with one click.
I made a disgruntled sound of disgust.
It was never going to end.
Pretty soon, I was going to become one of those people who collected cats and had all their food delivered because I was too scared to leave my own home.
Too scared I’d be discovered.
My eyes darted to the place on my coffee table where my phone rested.
What to do? What to do?
Picking up the phone, I did the only thing I could think of.
I took a page from Laura’s playbook and pressed Send.
