30.

I drove back to the Eden Tree, ignoring the speed limit, wind blasting my face through the empty space where my driver’s-side window used to be. The first thing I saw when I careened into the parking lot was the Bullshit Hunters’ van, a slightly more tasteful variation on the psychedelic Scooby-Doo Mystery Machine.

Porter pulled into the parking space beside mine. He got out and watched in helpless dismay as I pounded my fist on the side panel of the van. “Open up, Danny!” I shouted.

“I think they’re in their rooms,” Porter said softly, coming up beside me, holding a stack of wooden pie boxes in his arms. “They had just checked in before I left.”

Wheeler’s room was a few doors down from mine. I convinced Porter to let me deliver his pie. It took Wheeler less than two seconds to open his door after I knocked. He must have been expecting me.

It seemed like weeks had passed since I’d seen Wheeler. I wanted to throw my arms around him, but I had a pie box in my hands, so instead I shoved it into his and stormed inside.

“I tried to warn you,” Wheeler said, setting the pie box on his desk. “Didn’t you get my texts?”

“There’s no fucking service in this town,” I snapped, misplacing my anger directly onto him. “Not that it would have done me any good. But whatever. I’ll have a dozen episodes online before you guys can air a single one.”

Wheeler cleared his throat and lowered his eyes. “Actually, um…Danny decided to try something new for this investigation.”

“Let me guess. He’s going to post mini episodes online instead of waiting for them to air on TV. Brilliant. I wonder where he got that idea. You know he’s only doing this to get back at me, right? This morning he tried to rehire me. I turned him down.”

Wheeler’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “He didn’t tell us that, but I’m not surprised. You’re getting a lot of attention. Not all of it good, but there are always haters.”

“What haters?”

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Ignore them.”

“Ignore who?”

He took a deep breath and sighed. “Some people on social media feel like you’re taking advantage of the crowdsourcing system. That you’re making money off them, not just funding your series.” Wheeler took me by the shoulders, forcing me to look at him. “Don’t listen to the trolls. You’re doing great! Just keep filming. Pretend we’re not even here.”

There was a knock on the door then, and a voice that made every muscle in my body clench called, “Wheeler, let’s go. Daylight’s burning.”

I pulled away from Wheeler and headed for the door, grabbing the pie out of the pie box on my way.

“Liv, don’t—” Wheeler said, but there was no stopping me now.

I opened the door with my free hand. Danny stood on the other side, eyes affixed to his phone. He didn’t notice me until I spoke.

“Welcome to Stone’s Throw,” I said, and when he looked up I smashed the pie in his face.

I walked past him and disappeared into my room, leaving him sputtering in the hallway, bits of crust and sticky apple chunks plopping from his shoulders to land on the carpet at his feet. I’d feel bad about the mess later. For the moment, all I wanted to do was get my next webisode online before Danny and the Bullshit Hunters shot a single thing.

*  *  *

I went straight to work on my next webisode, cutting together footage from my DSLR and the GoPro. After viewing Gemma’s footage, I decided I believed her story about how we’d come to be separated. She did trip (or she appeared to). The camera angle jolted when she fell. I heard her curse, and then call out to me to wait. She began following the trail, her pace increasing as she continued to call my name with no response. Then the camera picked up the distant sound of Tocsin the mountain lion shrieking. Gemma ran toward the sound, the footage so shaky it was almost unusable.

Once I finished the rough cut of my episode. I did a quick polish to tighten it up, and used my laptop mike to record some explanatory voiceover, which I laid in, accompanied by eerie stock music I’d downloaded for free.

All in all, the edit took me close to two hours. The final product probably needed another polish or three, but I didn’t have time for that anymore, not with Danny in town trying to scoop me and almost a full day gone from the three I had to solve this thing and double my money. I posted the episode with all the relevant hashtags and blasted it out on social media.

Then I took a deep breath to steady myself and looked at my Twitter feed, scrolling through all the tweets I had missed since that morning.

A minute later, I opened the well-stocked mini bar under my desk, chose a bottle of Maker’s Mark bourbon, and drank it like it was Gatorade and I was a dehydrated marathon runner.

The Internet had turned on me. Last night, enthusiasm for my project had been through the roof, but around noon today people had begun to question whether what I was doing was ethical or just a self-serving grasp for attention and quick cash, and their questioning came in the form of an angry Twitter mob wielding hashtags like pitchforks and torches: #LivGreedy #entitled #getarealjob #BullshitBitch.

The hashtags were one thing. The tweets themselves were the truly malicious part.

@LivHendricks Someone should make YOU disappear.

@LivHendricks I would love to knock you the fuck out. Shatter your teeth and hope you choke on them.

@LivHendricks You think you can get away with this? Buckle up. The rape-mobile is heading straight for you.

@LivHendricks I know where you are. Watch your back.

@LivHendricks Greedy bitches need to be tied up and fucked in their fat bitch asses until they bleed. Blood makes the best lube.

Who wants to see a video of @LivHendricks choking on my dick until she agrees to give our money back?

On and on and on. Dozens of them. Threats against my life. Threats to “tear up every hole in my body.” Accusations that I was an entitled, greedy, attention-seeking, substance-abusing, not-skinny whore and I deserved every violent act committed against me.

I responded to none of them, but I read all of them. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. Was it a coincidence that the Internet hadn’t turned on me until today, after I declined Danny’s job offer? Maybe Danny had started an anti-Liv hate campaign in retaliation.

It took ten minutes of scrolling, but I found ground zero. The author of all my social media contempt. @Director_ElliotHoyt

Elliot Hoyt, my neighbor, had tweeted in the early afternoon:

Listen up @LivHendricks is using you to pay her rent after getting fired. Don’t fall for her bullshit like I did. #darkroad #entitled

I leaned back in my desk chair, the emotional numbness finally setting in. I should have been furious, but I only felt dazed and ashamed.

I picked up my phone and texted Elliot with clumsy fingers:

Why?

I didn’t really need an answer. I already knew. I’d ignored his texts, flaked on acting in his scene, rejected his needy advances. Apparently I’d been wrong about Elliot being too nice to make it in Hollywood. He had a long and illustrious career ahead of him.

I waited, watching my cell screen. The word READ appeared, followed by an iPhone ellipsis telling me Elliot had received my message and was texting me back. Then, just as quickly, the ellipsis vanished and did not reappear. I didn’t think I’d be hearing from him again.

I set my phone aside and returned my attention to my Twitter feed. I scrolled back through, rereading tweets, tallying up those still in support of me, and there were some. A few followers had even gone to bat for me, countering the violent tweets with rational, reasoned responses. But those replies were met with escalating scorn and vitriol, threats of rape and violence against my defenders, who could only take so much before they gave up and left me to fend for myself.

They’re just trolls, I told myself. Just a bunch of lonely, bitter men who live in their mothers’ basements and can’t get laid, so they take their anger out on me. I wasn’t the first prominent female who’d been vilified on social media, and I wouldn’t be the last.

As I reached the top of my feed, a new tweet arrived from someone with an anonymous human head avatar, but a twitter handle that gave me chills when I read it. @AnnikaKron tweeted:

@LivHendricks Follow the white wolf

I slammed my laptop shut and shot to my feet, turning in a circle, my eyes darting to every hidden nook and corner. I searched my room, checking behind the furniture, under the bed, in the wardrobe, in the bathroom. I even looked in my suitcase, like I might find someone folded inside, waiting to crawl out and pounce when my back was turned. That had happened in a Kron film. I couldn’t remember which one.

The room was empty. I was alone. I sat back down.

Follow the white wolf.

Whoever had tweeted this must be the same person who was in my room last night. The same person who broke into my sister’s car and left the wolf mask, then broke into my car and took it back. I had serious doubts it was the real Annika Kron, but I didn’t rule out the possibility entirely.

I fished a mini bottle of Jack Daniel’s out of the fridge and drank it in a single, continuous gulp. The warmth shushed my nerves, and I opened my laptop, checked @AnnikaKron’s Twitter profile. There was only the one tweet. No bio.

I clicked on the arrow to respond.

@AnnikaKron Who are you?

I waited five minutes. There was no response.

I removed the rest of the mini bottles from the fridge and lined them up next to my laptop. I drank the vodka and then hit FOLLOW on @AnnikaKron’s profile so we could take our conversation offline.

LH: You were in my room last night. You emailed that video.

AK: Yes.

LH: Are you really Annika Kron?

No response.

LH: Are you the white wolf?

No response.

LH: What do you want?

AK: I already told you. Follow the white wolf.

LH: I did that already.

AK: You didn’t go far enough.

LH: If you really are Annika Kron, tell me what happened to you.

No response.

LH: What will I find if I follow the wolf?

AK: Answers.

LH: Will I find out what happened to you and the other women who disappeared?

No response.

LH: What the fuck do you want me to do?

A long pause, and then her response came in the form of an attached image, a photograph of the white wolf mask that had been taken from my car. At least I thought it was the same one. Even looking at the picture of the mask made my stomach acids churn and my mouth fill with saliva. I swallowed repeatedly, willing myself to remember whatever it was my subconscious wanted to tell me about these masks, but nothing came to me. Not a single shred of memory.

LH: You want me to follow the mask, not the trail?

AK: It starts with the mask. Byeeee! Signing off now.

I tried several more questions, but @AnnikaKron did not respond, and I finally gave up. I studied her answers to my questions, homing in on the last thing she’d written.

It starts with the mask.

So where did the mask start?

Helene, at the wolf sanctuary, said her son, Niklas, made the wolf masks they sold as souvenirs. Her son, who worked in close proximity to the Dark Road, whose face had been disfigured by the fire he had started in the woods as a teenager. And who, according to Anders, had some kind of mental health issues as a child. As far as suspects went, he was as good as it got. Had he ever been investigated in regard to the disappearances? I’d have to have another chat with Lot about that.

I felt galvanized by this new direction. I needed to find out more about Niklas, and then I needed to talk to him away from the protection of his parents. I’d never get him to open up with his mother and father present, but I was also not keen on the idea of being alone with the guy. Maybe I could convince Gemma to accompany me as I tracked him down. But first I’d have to apologize to her.

I picked up my room phone and asked the woman at the front desk to connect me to Gemma’s room. The phone rang and rang without answer. I tried her cell phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I started to leave a message telling her to call me, but a knock on my door interrupted me. “Never mind. That’s probably you,” I said, and hung up.

But when I opened the door, it was not Gemma I found on the other side. It was Porter. Instead of his Eden Tree polo, he wore a dark-gray blazer over a checkered shirt with a plain black tie, complete with the silver tiepin that was still too fancy for the rest of his ensemble. He reminded me of a kid who’d dressed up for picture day at school.

“Hi,” he said, brow furrowing as he noticed I was clearly not ready for whatever he had in store for me, which, judging by his attire and the hearsay from Soren, was an actual date.

“Hi. Come in,” I said, waving him inside, hoping he didn’t notice my slurred speech. “I’m running late.”

His eyebrows rose slightly at the empty array of mini bottles on my desk, and his nostrils flared the tiniest bit, detecting the alcohol fumes on my breath.

“There’s something I need to talk to you about before we go,” he said, standing awkwardly in front of my desk, glancing at my laptop screen. I snaked around him and closed it, then swept the mini bottles into the trash.

“Happy hour,” I explained. “It’s been a long day.”

“I, uh…” He laughed, just one short huh, and scratched the back of his head, stalling. “I’ve had a complaint about you from one of the other guests.”

“Danny?” I guessed. Of course Danny would tell on me.

“He said you smashed a pie in his face,” Porter pointed out.

“I’m really sorry about that,” I said, lowering my eyes in a display of shame. “I lost my temper. I’m completely to blame.”

“I understand you being upset with him,” Porter said, taking a step toward me, close enough that my body lit up like a Christmas tree in proximity to his. I got that giddy, rolling, weightless sensation in my stomach that accompanies effortless chemistry. I didn’t remember ever experiencing such attraction to another person who wasn’t doing anything to elicit it. This was pure magnetism.

Porter touched my arm to comfort me, and I had to restrain myself from grabbing him by the back of the neck and pulling his mouth onto mine. My sudden desire for him seemed almost pathological. I sat down on the bed to put some distance between the two of us, but Porter sat down beside me, his thigh grazing mine. I crossed my arms and trapped my hands in my armpits.

“I hope you don’t think this makes me sound like a stalker, but…I was looking at your Twitter feed and I read some of the things people are saying. Are you okay?”

“I’m f-fine,” I choked out, my throat suddenly choked with emotion.

Porter turned so he was facing me, one knee up on the bed. “Tell me how I can help.”

“Don’t kick me out of the inn for the pie thing with Danny?”

Porter shrugged and smiled a shy, boyish smile. “Believe it or not, you’re not the first guest of the Eden Tree to behave badly.” His smile dimmed and he glanced away. “Actually, I feel like I’m the one behaving badly right now. I must be violating some innkeeper code of conduct, sitting on your bed with you.”

“Is there such a thing as an innkeeper code of conduct?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Good,” I said. And I kissed him. I didn’t know I was going to do it. Maybe it was the mini bottles I’d drunk, or the stress of reading all those hate tweets, or maybe I just wanted him, and I was tired of not getting what I wanted. I didn’t know, and at that moment I didn’t care.

Porter froze for a moment, unsure, and I pulled back. We looked at each other, heat building between us. Finally, Porter leaned in again, and his soft lips found mine in a gentlemanly kiss. A lingering, patient, Jane Austen kiss. But I wasn’t a Jane Austen sort of girl.

I used my lips to open his, not caring anymore that my breath was flammable. I teased Porter’s tongue out of his mouth and was gratified when he finally moaned in submission and let me have him. Keeping my mouth on his, I climbed onto his lap, straddled him with my knees on the bed, and felt the hard length of his cock fighting against his slacks.

The rest of it happened as it happens. Shirts peeled off and pants were hastily yanked down. Breasts were cupped, fondled. Nipples licked, sucked. We took turns between each other’s legs. I tried not to feel self-conscious about the fact that I hadn’t showered since that morning, while Porter’s very fine, perfectly sized penis still smelled faintly of soap from his last shower.

And then, the main event.

I’d already cum with assistance from Porter’s capable tongue, so I didn’t expect to again, but I was pleasantly surprised by the innkeeper’s skills as a lover. He thrust into me at just the right angle. He’d clearly had practice. He wasn’t as innocent and straitlaced as he seemed.

When it was over, I flopped back on the bed, sweaty and sated and fighting regret, the kind that always hit me after I fulfilled a craving and rational thinking became possible again. But Porter rolled toward me and smiled, making the skin around his eyes crinkle. His glasses had been tossed aside at some point, and he looked even younger without them. He reminded me of someone, and no one.

Porter laid a hand on my bare hip and kissed my shoulder.

“If there really is an innkeepers’ union, I think you’re going to be in trouble,” I said, my eyes drifting closed against my will.

“You’re exhausted,” Porter said, moving his hand to my hair and brushing a sticky lock of it back from my face. “Take a nap. I’ll come back to pick you up for dinner at seven thirty, okay?”

I knew I should rouse myself, get back to work. There was plenty I needed to do, including read Annika Kron’s file. But I was already sliding toward sleep, and I needed to shut off my mind, just for a little while. I wouldn’t be able to see straight unless I did.

I nodded at Porter and closed my eyes, felt him rise from the bed. He pulled the comforter around me, wrapping me tight like a burrito.

“You’re so nice,” I murmured, barely conscious. “Will you make sure the doors are locked?”

“Of course.” He laid a kiss on my brow. On my scar, I thought.

And then I was out.