The camera follows me as I jog down the road after the police car, then stagger to a stop.
“That’s enough,” Greer shouts from somewhere behind the cameraman.
The lens swings toward her. Her mouth’s pinched in a tight line.
“C’mon,” the cameraman gripes. “This is your big moment.”
“I said”—and here, she reaches out, and the camera shakes—“that’senough.”
That was the last time I saw Greer Woods. Almost every night since, I’ve tried calling her, but not once has she answered. “Please call me back, I don’t know what to do” gave way to “Why aren’t you picking up? Are you all right?”
And then when the show started airing, when I realized I’d been discarded, tossed aside having outlasted my usefulness, “Fuck you.”
A quick tap on her number, and the phone starts ringing. What would I do if she answered? Yell? Cry? Hang up? Hang up, probably. It doesn’t matter; she doesn’t answer. The call redirects to voicemail.
“Hey, Greer. Just finished watching your finale. So, quick question: When exactly did you stop giving a shit about me? A few days before the arrest? A few weeks? Was any of it real, or were you using me the entire time? Because that’s what it feels like.” I switch off the television, unable to watch another moment of her bullshit. “I swear to god, if I ever see you again—”
When my phone chimes, I almost drop it. A message lights up my screen:
Did you get the letter?
It’s from Greer Woods. Disconnecting from the ongoing call, I pound her number again and again until the ringing starts. “Come on,” I mutter. “Pick up.” It goes straight to voicemail.
I text her back:
Greer? Are you there?
I wait for a response. Nothing.
What letter? I dash over to the sideboard, to the stack of envelopes waiting there, and start rummaging through them. Tossing aside all thePAST DUESandLAST NOTICES, I find a nondescript white security envelope without a return address. My thumb edges its way under the flap, ripping it open.
Nicola,
Welcome to the Death Row Club. You are invited to our annual retreat. Please visit the website below for more information.
There’s no additional information, only a seven-digit code. This must be the letter she was asking about. I grab my laptop from the kitchen table and type in the website address. Seven blank lines appear onscreen. Seven lines, seven digits. I type in the code from the letter.
A red notification circle materializes above my email icon. The message in my inbox comes from what looks like a disposable account and contains another code. Again, I type it in, and in response, my phone buzzes with a text message. Whatever this is, they are not messing around with security. Finally, I’m redirected to a website with a few paragraphs of text.
You have been invited to join the Death Row Club, an exclusive social club for the children of serial killers.
I stare at that sentence for a long time. An exclusive social club for the children of serial killers. My daydreams of a TLC household come rushing back with so much force, I sink into the pillows at the end of the couch. I might not have siblings who stood alongside me while our father was dragged away in handcuffs, but if this letter is for real, then there are others out there who’ve lived the same experience. Others who might want to meet me.
I keep reading.
Each year, we host a weekend retreat in an undisclosed location. This provides our members with the opportunity to interact in a safe and secure environment. We understand that it’s difficult to find people who can relate to what you’ve been through, but here at the Death Row Club, you’ll be surrounded by friends who’ve shared the same struggles and come out the other side.
This year’s retreat will take place during the second weekend in June. If you are interested in attending, click YES below. Please note that these retreats are all-expenses paid. We do not want any member to miss out on this experience because of their financial situation.
The second weekend in June. That’s this weekend—as in, the day after tomorrow. I imagine striding into a hotel, duffel bag slung over my shoulder, and being greeted with handshakes and hugs. Lounging around the lobby bar, exchanging war stories in hushed tones, commiserating about our parents and how the news got everything wrong. What I wouldn’t give for a gentle touch, a welcoming word. What I wouldn’t give to be understood. Accepted.
I drag the cursor to theYESbutton, and am about to click when something occurs to me:
Greer Woods asked if I received the letter. She knows about the Death Row Club.
She’ll probably be there this weekend.
I swallow down my unease. We are long overdue for a conversation. I deserve answers: When did she start suspecting my father? Why did she disappear from my life after his arrest? Does she honestly believe I was complicit in his crimes? Did our friendship mean anything to her at all?
