MY MAZDA SHUDDERS down the I-5, unsteady at such high speeds. I’m feeling unsteady myself, hands damp on the wheel, breath labored in my chest. The reality of what I’m about to do is sinking in, the recklessness of this decision. I’ve told no one that I’m coming here. In fact, I lied to both Theo and Liza. They’d have thought I was insane, would have certainly talked me out of it. But this mission still feels like the right thing to do. I’m done sitting passively by. I’m done being a victim.
Haters cannot be beaten online. This is evidenced by Janine’s and Chloe’s experiences, and by all the online research I have done. Reacting, hitting back on social media is just giving them what they want. Don’t feed the trolls. Even the most novice internet user knows the adage. Of course, confronting a virtual harasser in person is ill advised, potentially dangerous. But Chloe Winston said she wished she’d shown her abusers the real person behind the online persona. And my tormentor is female. This gives me a sense of security, and a sense of hope. Maybe I can reason with her. Connect with her woman-to-woman. Maybe I can find out why she hates me so much.
The border guard had asked the purpose of my visit.
“Just getting some cheese and some gas,” I’d said pleasantly. “I might stop in at Trader Joe’s.”
He’d had no reason not to believe me. Thousands of Canadians cross this border each day in search of bargains. Not many admit they’re on a mission to confront their cyber stalker. Or at least to observe her in her natural habitat. I’m still not sure that I will approach Ingrid. I plan to surveil her, check out the situation, and listen to my instincts. If she seems violent or aggressive, I will abort. But she works with cats. She wears romantic sundresses. How dangerous can she be?
I’d called my daughter as I left the city, the car rattling past vast farms growing blueberries and cranberries, raising dairy cattle. Liza has a free period on Friday mornings, so I knew she’d be tucked up in her bed, in the small basement bedroom at Adrian’s, likely scrolling through her phone. She answered after the first ring.
“Hey, honey. Just checking in. Are you coming home tonight, or tomorrow?”
“Tonight,” she said. “I have to study, and Savannah is having a bunch of her nerdy friends over.”
Liza gets along with her stepsister, but they travel in very different social orbits.
“Great,” I said. I’m always happy when my girl comes home. “Will Wyatt be coming over to study with you?” My tone was breezy, casual, but clearly also irritating.
“Wyatt is hanging out with his friends tonight,” she’d snapped. “And no, we haven’t decided what we’re going to do in the fall. Can you just let us work it out, please?”
I was tempted to tell her that the clock was ticking, that she had to apply for a deferral or the tuition fees Adrian and I paid would be lost. But I wasn’t up for a fight. “Okay. Sorry.”
“Where are you going?” Liza asked. She could hear the vehicle rattling.
“Groceries,” I lied. I’d gone the day before. “I’ll stock the fridge up for you.”
“It sounds like you’re on the freeway.”
“Nope. Just a bumpy patch of road here. I’ll see you tonight.”
I’d felt bad lying to my daughter, but Janine is right. The less Liza knows about this mess the better.
Fooling Theo was more challenging. He’s been on edge since Felix punched him in the face, since he learned my computer was hacked, since we confirmed that someone is trying to mess up my life. My boyfriend has always been attentive—texting regularly when he’s not on the water or in the mountains—but now it’s bordering on obsessive. He’s worried about me. And if I go MIA on a day off, he’ll panic. I told him I was attending a professional development course on the outskirts of the city, that my phone would be on silent. It seemed to satisfy him.
My GPS tells me to get onto the 405, and I veer east toward my destination. I’m flying past residential neighborhoods, tech campuses, and colleges, interspersed with scrubby patches of forest. It’s unfamiliar territory. I’ve been to Seattle several times over the years—Adrian liked to come down to watch the Mariners play, and we’d taken Liza to the Museum of Pop Culture and to Pike Place Market—but I’ve never visited the suburbs. I’ve never had reason to. Until now.
As I roll into the city, I’m greeted by gleaming luxury hotels, sleek office towers, and the high-end shopping center that dominates the main drag. This upscale community is home to wealthy tech employees and those who work in the various service industries. My GPS guides me through the old part of town, down a quaint street with outdoor dining and flowers in planters, and across a busy thoroughfare. A few minutes later, I hear: Your destination will be on your right. And I pull into the parking lot of Purr Feline Clinic.
Suddenly, my bravado deserts me. I’d planned to go into the clinic and pretend I have a sick cat at home. I would inquire about costs and medications, and then I’d casually ask if Ingrid was available. She’d be shocked to see me there, but she wouldn’t react, not in her workplace. I’d offer to buy her a smoothie on her break, to talk things through. It would be safer to meet her in a public space, near her work, where she’d be on her best behavior. But now, I find, I can’t get out of my car.
I’m still sitting there, more than an hour later, when Ingrid exits. At the sight of my nemesis in the flesh, my heartbeat skitters, and I sink lower into my seat. Ingrid is in her uniform, blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, a backpack slung over her shoulder. I glance at the dashboard clock. Her shift must end at three. She is moving toward a small SUV, a Honda CR-V, and now she’s climbing in. I have missed my chance to intercept her, to finally put an end to this harassment. As her car reverses out of the parking spot, my stomach clenches. I can’t turn around and drive all the way home. I’ve come too far to chicken out now. Starting my car, I pull out of the lot behind her.
I follow her blue vehicle back through town, up a steep hill, and into a residential neighborhood. We move past luxurious two-story homes, some with views of the distant lake, and continue on for several blocks. The houses become more modest, bungalows mostly and some eighties-style ranch homes. Ingrid parks in front of a tidy house with gray siding, a red door, and neat flower beds. I stop my car a few houses away, adrenaline surging through my bloodstream, pulse pounding in my ears. Ingrid gets out of her vehicle, gathers her backpack, and moves toward her house.
It’s unwise to approach her here, on this quiet street, with no one in sight. If she is mentally ill, consumed with rage, she could be dangerous. And then a gray cat, the one from her Instagram photo, scampers toward her. Ingrid kneels to scratch it under the chin. It’s now or never. I climb out of my car.
“Wait!” I call.