Scott slept like the dead, one arm crooked behind his head, barely breathing. Chris watched him for a while, then went through to the office. Three a.m. She knew she wouldn’t sleep; didn’t bother trying.
The inbox and social media feeds were a seething mass of pending memberships, abuse, and interview requests from podcasters and docudrama producers. The story wasn’t dying. The last time she’d looked elsewhere online, there were countless threads dedicated to discussions about Peter Kazinski’s psycho-pathy, most along the lines of: <he was FED by the internet. He got off on all the attention. That’s what sparked him off again> Obvious crap. Links to his confession had been embedded into articles and diatribes everywhere from 4chan to the Washington Post, and the site’s traffic was off the scale. It was the gift that kept on giving. The manipulative asshole would’ve known that when he posted his final comment, and she’d been back and forth on whether or not to delete him and it from the site. Much as she hated the thought that Missing-Linc was benefiting from this, she wasn’t an idiot. It could’ve been Kazinski sending her those messages about her mom; could’ve been him who’d fanned the flames about JT. Time would tell; the cops’ tech people were no doubt still wading through his history. She’d also considered removing her mother’s page from the site. Knew she wouldn’t. She’d keep looking. Lonely.
‘Coffee?’
Scott’s shadowy shape loomed over her. She hadn’t heard him rising. ‘Yeah. Thanks.’
It might work out with him; it might not. But for now, she’d take what she could get.