Four Keys for Them, Zero for Me Chapter 07

Four Keys for Them, Zero for Me Chapter 07

“Is Vera Woods from your school?”

After the new year, an advance copy of Alibi arrived on campus. The cover was spare—gray/blue, a half/open door, a line of light slipping through. No author photo. Byline: D.B..

But the publisher did a push. A book blogger posted a long review. It hit a million views. The comments exploded.

Professor Hayes forwarded the link to the department group chat:
“Your freshman.”

Jenna shoved her phone in my face at the cafeteria: “You’re trending.”

“What?”

“How Terrifying It Is When Parents Play Favorites.’ Your book excerpts are everywhere.”

I took the phone and scrolled. The most shared passage was from Chapter Three:

“They had four keys. Four bowls. Four plane tickets. The number was always four—like a locked door. I stood outside listening to them laugh, thinking if I were just a little better, the door would open. I learned later that door didn’t have a keyhole for me.”

Top comment: “My mom dropped three thousand on my brother’s sneakers without blinking. I asked for three hundred for books and she asked if I was wasting money again.” Ten thousand replies. All similar stories. Neglected firstborns. Overlooked middle children. Older sisters turned into unpaid nannies.

I gave Jenna back her phone.

“Aren’t you happy? A million views.”

“I’m happy.”

“You sound exactly like when you say ‘nothing.'”

That afternoon, Ethan found me in the library with an advance copy.

“Autograph?”

“You bought it?”

“On campus shelves. I bought three—one for me, one for Mom, one for a friend.” He handed it over, open to the title page. I signed as D.B..

He looked at it. “Your real name is better. Vera Woods. Sounds like a sentence.”

He tucked the book away, then paused. “That ‘four keys’ passage—I read it and called my mom.”

“What’d you say?”

“Told her thanks for always making sure I had an umbrella.”

He left.

I sat by the window for a long time, staring at the bare sycamore trees outside.

That afternoon, my phone buzzed again. Multiple messages from Sherry:

“Vera, someone shared an article in our school parents’ group.”

“It’s about us.”

“Mom saw it. She’s upset.”

“She asked me if you’ve been writing stuff online.”

My thumb hovered. Writing stuff. Her first thought wasn’t, “Is it true?”
It was, “How could you let outsiders know?”

Ten minutes later, Mom messaged. Not the group chat—privately. The
first time she’d ever reached out to me one—one. Forty—three days
and months before that—nearly half a year. First time.

The message: “Vera, did you write all that nonsense online? The
neighbors are asking if we’re really like that. If you have a problem,
come home and say it to our faces. Don’t make things up.”

Make things up.

She used the words “make things up.” That meant fabrication. Meant
I was inventing things. Smearing them.

I read it word by word. Then replied: “Every word is true.”

Sent.

A long silence. Then a voice message—her tone cold, familiar:

“You think you’re so grown up now, huh? How do you think that
makes me and your dad look?”

She cared about image. Not whether any of it happened. Not that her
daughter sat in a hallway for eight and a half hours. Not that she had
a 103—degree fever and no one knocked. Not the itinerary for four.