I let that sink in before saying, “Or you can talk to me.”
After several tense beats, Vertze said, “I’ll talk.”
“Fred,” Stetson said. “Don’t.”
“Brian, my old man will skin me alive if I get expelled,” Vertze said sharply.
“I’ll talk too,” Cyr said.
Stetson’s face flushed. He glared at me, caught in a fierce internal argument, and then finally said sullenly, “What do you want to know?”
Over the next twenty minutes or so, the story came out.
Stetson was a math and computer genius who should have gone to Caltech, but his father was a trustee and fervent supporter of Catholic University. His first night at the school, Stetson had introduced Cyr and Vertze to the dark web. They’d found the Killingblondechicks website and started posting about it for fun.
“Fun?” I said.
“C’mon,” Stetson said. “No one thinks those videos are real.”
“Have you unlocked the videos?”
“You can’t. I tried. The locked world, the unknown, it’s just part of the fantasy of virtual reality, man, a place to safely experience and vent frustrations without consequences.”
I reappraised the eighteen-year-old, thinking that he was entirely too smart for his own good. “You boys experience frustration with blondes?”
“Hasn’t every guy on the face of the earth?” Vertze said.
Cyr and Stetson both started laughing. I had to admit it was a funny line, and I fought not to smile.
Finally, I said, “If I look around in your pasts, am I going to find a blonde one of you disliked so much that she ended up kidnapped? Or dead?”
Cyr said, “My first girlfriend was a blonde. Caught her messing around with my best friend’s older brother. They’re married now. Not kidnapped. Not dead. Just miserable.”
Vertze said, “My anti-blondeness stems from a severe German teacher junior year who had zero sense of humor. I thought about sticking a pin in her ass but refrained—at least, long enough to get an A.”
Stetson and Cyr laughed again. I couldn’t help it and smiled.
“What about you, Brian?” I said, looking at Stetson.
Stetson sobered and said, “My blonde story is like all blonde stories. They’re all about the princess complex that’s sold to them each and every day.”
CHAPTER
15
AFTER DINNER, ONCE Jannie had gone upstairs to do homework and Ali had settled in to watch Meru, an excellent documentary about extreme mountain climbers, I told Bree and Nana Mama about Brian Stetson, disguising him as a client and not revealing his name.
“The princess complex?” Bree said. “And how exactly did he define that?”
“He said it starts at birth with blond girls,” I said. “They’re dressed as princesses in the crib. Then they’re sold the princess story in movies, in advertising, all around them, until they believe that if they can just be beautiful enough, they’ll attract Prince Charming and live happily ever after.”
Nana Mama said, “An eighteen-year-old told you all that?”
“A sharp one. He had the root theory of blonde stories figured out.”
Bree said, “I knew a blonde who was just like that, treated like a princess her whole childhood. Leanne Long. She was an honest-to-God nice person, and she became a nurse and married a really nice guy, so it doesn’t always work according to that kid’s theory.”
“This old lady needs her sleep,” my grandmother said, taking her cane and getting up.