In the end, it’s hunger that gets the better of me, forcing me out to feed the beast. It’s been grumbling away for a while now, making me feel weak and weepy. I grab a packet of biscuits, a couple of bags of crisps, and some mini cheeses from the fridge, along with a couple of cans of Coke: all food I don’t have to worry about preparing. I go back upstairs and scarf down the lot without tasting any of it.
Later, I plug in my laptop, simply so I can watch something. Maybe a movie will fill the yawning void inside me, or at least help me ignore it for a couple of hours. As I log into Netflix, in the corner of my screen, a notification pops up: an email.
I almost don’t look. Why bother? It’s probably just more hate. But I do despise an untidy inbox. And can it really be worse than what I’ve already seen?
I click on the notification. I don’t recognize the email address. The subject line is empty. Weird.
I open the email. It contains two hyperlinked words.
I WIN
My stomach lurches. I know exactly who this is from.
I hover the mouse cursor over the words, revealing a link to a video hosting site I don’t recognize. It could be anything. Well, whatever it is, it’s probably loaded with malware, so I’d better leave it be.
Unless . . .
No. Delete it. Don’t invite her back in. Get rid of it. Close the book. No more. Do what thou wilt, for I am done with thee.
That works for about an hour. I start watching something suitably trashy, but even that can’t smother my curiosity. I win. Win at what? She already destroyed my life weeks ago. What else could she do?
Oh God. Amy. I thought setting her up to get her heart broken by an online boyfriend was bad enough, but if there’s more—
Screw malware; I have to know what’s going on. I click the hyperlink. It takes a couple of seconds for it to load, and even longer for me to work out what is going on, but when I do, my insides turn glacial.
The footage is low res, exactly what you’d expect from a cheap, built-in webcam.
It shows Amy. In her dorm.
She’s not doing much, just sitting at her desk. I’ve got a fantastic shot of her cleavage, because she’s wearing a tank top and I am obviously watching her via her laptop webcam. I know she’s oblivious to the presence, because she spends a good fifteen seconds delicately excavating her nose with her little finger before wiping it on her knee.
In the corner of the screen are two little red numbers. At first, I don’t know what they mean, but when they change, I realize they’re a countdown. That can’t be good. What is Tori going to do? Arrange a private floorshow? But how would she even do that?
I sit, gnawing on my fingers. I have to tell Amy. Warn her. But she won’t listen to me. I reach out for my phone, fumbling it a couple of times, but before I can find Amy’s number, another email pops up. This one is from a different account and is also anonymous. This time, the link says:
GAME OVER
What the ever-living fuck?! Tori has obviously scheduled this to send when the other one was opened, which means she’s monitoring me. I glance up—the little bit of tape I’ve put over my webcam is still there, thank God. This time, I don’t hesitate clicking the link.
This one is from an image hosting site. When it finally loads, I’m presented with a screenshot, showing a snippet of conversation between two people in a private chatroom.
The man is called Pete.
The woman . . . Amy.
Pete: I’ll be in the carpark. U walk past, lookin at ur phone. U dont notice me. Im in the shadows, near my van. I walk behind u and say ur name.
Amy: Omg, this is so hot. I’ll answer “yeah” and then u grab me and drag me into the van.
Pete: u gotta fight tho, or it won’t work. Won’t feel real.
Amy: oh ill scream good. Ud better tape my mouth shut before someone calls the cops. ;)
Pete: I’ll be ready, babe. U fight me, and I’ll give u the ride of ur life . . .
It carries on like this. I want to say it’s just a fantasy, it’s okay, some people have those—but this isn’t just a conversation. This is two people arranging to live out that fantasy. And one of those people has got to be Tori, pretending to be Amy. Setting Amy up.
It’s the sickest thing I’ve ever seen.
I’ve also figured out what the red counter on her webcam is for.
It’s counting down the hours before Amy meets “Anthony” on Saturday night.
***
Amy’s still blocking my number, but I still ring her a million times, leaving increasingly desperate voicemails, begging her to ring me back. I even resort to stalking her on Facebook; she’s so naive that her settings are public, so it isn’t hard. I don’t even have to log in, so I can avoid the torrent of hate. #winning.
She seems to have calmed down. She’s sharing a lot of stuff about her Saturday plans, tagging “Anthony” into every post, while he in turn expresses his excitement over finally meeting “his girl.” I can see why she’s fallen for him—he’s as adorable as she is. She deserves someone like him. Or would, if he were real.
By Friday morning, I’m having major panic attacks. I didn’t sleep a wink the night before, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t get Amy to pick up. So I do the only thing left at my disposal: I go to her halls.
I know there’s a very good chance I’m going to get punched. If I had to lay money, I’d put it on Indigo, peace-loving vegan though she is (unless she’s drunk, of course). But a black eye is a very small price to pay when it comes to saving your best friend from an orchestrated assault.
There’s a little part of me that’s still hoping all of this is a hoax. Surely, even Tori can’t be this evil. The webcam thing is bad enough, but setting up Amy to unsuspectingly meet someone with a very sick fantasy, who thinks she’s consented to acting that fantasy out? That’s way beyond anything I’d thought her capable of. Beyond criminal, beyond vile, beyond evil.
I sit near the front of the bus, staring straight ahead. I twist my fingers together, over and over, practicing what I have to say in my head, because I know I’m only going to get one shot at this; no time for umming or ahhing, just straight up “You’re in danger. Look at this.”
I’ve saved the screenshot as evidence on my phone, and I have the link to the video hosting already set up. All I have to do is get someone to look at it. It doesn’t even have to be Amy, it just has to be someone who knows her, who likes her, who cares.
Amy’s stop. I march off despite my legs feeling weak, my chest feeling wobbly, my phone in hand just in case I bump into someone on the way.
I don’t. No one is around. I check the time: four o’clock. She should be back from lectures. Unless she’s gone to the union. Oh, God, please don’t let her be there. It’s hard enough doing this here.
Okay. Coming up to her halls now. I dart my head around, looking for any signs of life, but everything’s quiet. I reach up to press the buzzer with trembling hands, unsure if I have the strength.
One second. Two. Three. Come on, someone has to be in. Someone’s always in. Dare I press again? Maybe I should. Just to be su—
“Yep?”
Oh, bollocks. It’s Indigo. If there’s one person I’m not going to convince, it’s her.
“Hi Indigo, I know you don’t want to see me, but I really need to talk to Amy, or show something to you, this is not me fucking about, I mean it, she’s in real dang—”
“Seriously? I thought we made it clear last time that you’re not welcome here, Beth. Fuck off.”
“I know, but she’s in danger, just please let me up—”
The line goes dead.
Tears of frustration and dread sting the backs of my eyes. Well, screw her. I’m going to wait. They can’t stay up there forever. At some point, one of them has to go out, and then I’ll pounce.
I don’t care what I have to do. I’m going to warn Amy.