Chương 10
“I’m not asking you to make me feel better.”
“You kind of are.”
Vanessa looked up.
“Yes. Sometimes I am. I still want you to. That’s the humiliating part.”
Rachel looked at her sister’s hands.
Their father’s hands, almost exactly.
Long fingers. Square nails.
“Do you still want to be an influencer?”
Vanessa made a face.
“I hate that word.”
“You made your living influencing people.”
“I know.”
“Answer.”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you love it?”
“Sometimes.”
“What part?”
“The work.”
Rachel blinked. “Really?”
“The actual work. Editing. Lighting. Writing. Building campaigns. Figuring out why something connects.”
“And the attention?”
“Yes.”
“Money?”
“Obviously.”
“What else?”
Vanessa hesitated.
“The proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“That I mattered.”
Rachel stared at her.
Vanessa shook her head.
“I know how pathetic that sounds.”
“No.”
“It does.”
“It sounds expensive.”
Vanessa laughed once.
Then tears filled her eyes.
She wiped them angrily.
“This is why I wore waterproof mascara for ten years.”
Rachel did not reach for her.
Vanessa recovered.
“When Dad died, everyone talked about how dependable he was. When Daniel died, everyone talked about how good he was. I started thinking if I died, people would say I had good engagement.”
Rachel’s chest hurt.
“That’s not true.”
“I know. Intellectually.”
“You helped me after Daniel.”
“I also filmed a sponsored moisturizer post in your downstairs bathroom the morning after the funeral.”
Rachel stared.
Vanessa covered her face.
“What?”
“You were sleeping. I had a deadline.”
Rachel did not know whether to laugh or throw something.
Vanessa looked through her fingers.
“I’m not proud.”
“You sold moisturizer after my husband’s funeral?”
“Technically before breakfast.”
Rachel burst out laughing.
She tried to stop.
She could not.
Vanessa began laughing too, crying at the same time.
Their mother opened the upstairs door.
“Are you two okay?”
“No,” they said together.
Their mother shut the door.
The laughter faded.
Rachel wiped her face.
“This doesn’t fix anything.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“You still don’t get to see Lily yet.”
“I know.”
Vanessa nodded.
“I brought something.”
Rachel stiffened.
“No gifts.”
“It’s not for her.”
Vanessa reached into her bag and took out a black external drive.
“All my footage of Lily. Every file I have. Photos, videos, drafts, backups.”
Rachel stared.
“I want you to have it.”
“Why?”
“I’m deleting my copies.”
“How do I know?”
“You don’t.”
The answer mattered.
Vanessa continued. “That’s the point. I can show you what I’m doing, but I can’t demand you believe me.”
Rachel took the drive.
It felt too light for what it represented.
“Are there commercial posts on here?”
“Yes.”
“You made money from Lily before?”
Vanessa froze.
Rachel’s stomach turned.
“How much?”
“Rachel.”
“How much?”
“Not directly.”
“That means yes.”
“Some posts with her performed better.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“Guess.”
Vanessa looked sick.
“Maybe twenty or thirty thousand over two years if you attribute campaign lift.”
Rachel stood.
The chair slid backward.
“You told me those were family pictures.”
“Most were.”
“Most.”
“I never signed a deal saying Lily was the deliverable.”
“You used her.”
“Yes.”
Rachel’s skin went cold.
“You built money on my child.”
“Partly.”
“And you’re telling me now because therapy made you honest?”
“No. I’m telling you because if I don’t tell you everything, any apology is another performance.”
Rachel picked up the drive.
“I have to go.”
“Rachel.”
“Don’t.”
Vanessa stayed seated.
Rachel left.
In her car, she put the drive on the passenger seat and stared at it.
The first violation had been visible.
Hair cut.
Skin nicked.
A frightened child.
This one was harder.
Rachel had approved photographs. She had liked posts. She had laughed when friends told her Lily looked adorable on Vanessa’s page.
How much consent had Rachel given without understanding the economy beneath it?
Not legal consent. Human consent.
Had she also enjoyed the attention?
Sometimes.
Had she accepted free clothes Vanessa received because Lily wore them?
Yes.
Had she looked away because the benefits were small and the risks felt abstract?
Yes.
She drove nowhere for twenty minutes.
Finally she pulled into a grocery-store parking lot and called Mark.
He answered with, “If this is about murder, I’m at dinner.”
“It’s not murder.”
“Great.”
She told him about the drive.
Mark went quiet.
“Do not plug it into your work computer.”
“That’s your first concern?”
“It’s a practical concern.”
Rachel closed her eyes.
“I think I helped.”
“Helped what?”
“Vanessa monetize Lily.”
“Did you know that was happening?”
“Not like this.”
“Then don’t collapse distinct responsibilities because guilt feels morally cleaner.”
Rachel gripped the wheel.
“What does that mean?”
“It means if you convince yourself everyone is equally responsible, you don’t have to judge anyone.”
She hated him for five seconds.
“Finish dinner.”
“Gladly.”
That night Rachel did not watch the files.
She put the drive beside the zip bag in the document drawer.
For the first time since the haircut, she dreamed about Daniel.
Nothing profound.
They were in a hardware store arguing over drawer handles.
He kept choosing ugly brass ones.
Rachel woke at 4:12 a.m. with tears on her face.
The next morning Lily stood in the kitchen holding school scissors.
Rachel froze.
Lily froze too.
“I need to cut this string.”
A loose thread hung from her art project.
Rachel forced her shoulders down.
“Okay.”
Lily looked at the scissors.
Then at Rachel.
“Can you?”
Rachel took them.
She cut the string.
Lily watched.
“Again.”
“There’s only one string.”
“Cut paper.”
Rachel picked up an old envelope.
Snip.
Lily flinched.
Rachel waited.
“Again.”
Snip.
Lily breathed.
“Can I?”
Rachel handed her the scissors handle-first.
Lily held them.
Her fingers trembled.
Then she cut the envelope.
A crooked piece fell onto the counter.
Lily stared at it.
“See?”
Rachel kept her voice gentle.
“You were in charge.”
Lily cut again.
And again.
Then she looked up.
“Can Aunt Vanessa come to soccer now?”
May you like
Rachel almost laughed at the brutality of childhood transitions.
“One successful envelope does not decide that.”
