MARTHA AND I sit at the bar in a ridiculously popular nouveau Italian joint in the Olympic Village, a carafe of white wine between us. The place buzzes with energy, tables of six, eight, even ten all celebrating something, if only the end of the week. This raucous space may not have been the best choice for the conversation my friend and I need to have, but the wine is cold and the thin-crust pizza we’ve ordered will be delicious. And thanks to Martha’s natural flirtiness, we’ve been comped a side of meatballs.
I used to abstain from evening plans when Liza was with me, but in the last couple of years, her social life has eclipsed mine. I’d turn down a dinner offer only to sit home alone while Liza had sushi with Wyatt or went to a movie with a group of pals or studied at a coffee shop with other students. Now I find it easier to accept invitations from girlfriends during the weeks Liza lives with me. This way, I don’t have to deal with excluding Theo. And Liza is heading back to her dad’s tonight, anyway. It’s perfect timing for an evening with my oldest friend.
“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” Martha says. “It’s been way too long.”
“It has,” I agree. “And I’m sorry everything has been so insane lately.”
“It’s okay.” Martha pats my forearm. “Any idea who might have hacked you?”
“No, but I’ve narrowed it down.” I have kept my recent trip to myself, but Martha is my closest friend. I tell her about examining the background of Ingrid Wandry’s photos and learning she lives in nearby Bellevue. I tell her that I drove south to confront her, that I realized I’d been catfished, that the woman in the photos is really Megan Prince. I tell Martha how it all turned so ugly.
“Jesus, Cam.” Martha takes a drink as she processes my story. “That sounds really risky.”
“I know. But after the hack, I couldn’t sit by and let her hurt my friends.”
“This woman could have been dangerous. She could have been armed.”
“I thought maybe I could reason with her, woman-to-woman.”
“She could have called the cops,” Martha continues. “And then what would have happened?”
My friend is protective, I understand that, but I’m starting to feel scolded. I move the conversation forward. “At least I learned that Megan Prince is not my troll. But it’s someone she knows, or at least someone who can access the photos on her private Instagram account. But she won’t give me access to it.”
“I guess not after you showed up on her doorstep,” Martha mutters into her glass of wine.
She’s judging me, but Martha doesn’t get it. How could she? Only people like Chloe Winston and Janine Kang know what it feels like to be trolled.
“Anyway,” I say pointedly, “I looked up the vet clinic’s website. Some of Megan’s colleagues have public Facebook pages, and I found Megan at a barbecue. I searched the background for anyone I might know, but I came up empty.”
“Promise me you’ll be careful, Cam.”
“I won’t do anything reckless again,” I assure her. “And please don’t tell Theo or Liza.”
“I’d never tell Liza,” Martha says quickly. “And there’s no chance of me telling Theo, since he’s still refusing to talk to us.” There’s a snarky edge to her voice that makes me bristle.
“Well… Felix did punch him in the face.”
“Only because you told him we were having an affair.”
“Except I didn’t.”
“I know.” Martha sighs and sets her wine down. “I’m sorry if I’m being churlish. The whole thing has been tough on us. It brought up trust issues in our marriage that I had no idea existed.”
“I was surprised Felix would believe that you’d cheat on him,” I say.
“So was I.”
“I never doubted you.” My voice is gentle. “Or Theo.”
“Well, Felix doesn’t know Theo that well.” Martha picks up her glass. “And they’ve never really hit it off.”
“They haven’t?” This is news to me. “Theo’s always liked Felix.”
Martha shifts in her seat, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s not that Felix doesn’t like him… There’s a big age gap. And they have different interests.”
“They both love the outdoors. They’ve gone bouldering and kayaking together.”
“Forget it.” Martha refills my wineglass. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You’re my best friend. And Theo’s my boyfriend. It matters to me.”
She swivels to face me. “Do you really want me to be honest?”
“I do.”
“Felix gets a bad vibe off Theo. He always has.”
My stomach churns. “What do you mean, ‘a bad vibe’?”
“He says he can’t put his finger on it, but… he doesn’t like him. Or trust him.”
I’m stunned by my friend’s words. Are we referring to the same Theo? At times, I’ve been concerned that we’re not a good fit, that our age difference and disparate life goals might cause a problem, but I’ve never once worried that he isn’t a kind, genuine person. I look up at Martha, at her troubled face. “What do you think of Theo?”
“I think he’s fine. Maybe… just not…”
“Just not what?”
“Just not… right for you.”
“I’ve been with him for two years, Martha. He wants us to move in together. Why didn’t you say something before I got invested in him?”
“I didn’t think you were serious about him, Cam. He’s so young. And then I didn’t want to upset you. But when all this shit happened with the email, it stirred up some stuff for Felix. And for me.”
The attractive bartender interrupts us. “Here’s your margherita pizza,” he says brightly, oblivious of the tension. “And the meatballs will be right up. More wine?”
“No,” I say, just as Martha says, “Yes.”
“I guess not,” Martha says, and the bartender retreats.
The pizza smells amazing, but it sits ignored between us.
“Theo’s fine,” Martha says. “But we were friends before he came into the picture. And we’ll be friends after. That’s all I’m saying.”
A wave of intense weariness washes over me, of sadness and confusion. My closest friends don’t support my relationship. It is new and disturbing information, and it’s all too much, on top of the mess surrounding my book, my daughter’s graduation, and her imminent departure for college, or Australia. I wave to the bartender and dig out my credit card.
“Camryn, don’t,” Martha says.
But I’m suddenly on the verge of tears. “It’s fine,” I mutter as I tap my card on the machine. “I just need to go home.”
“Can I come with? So we can talk properly?”
“I’d like to be alone, Martha.”
She gets off her stool. “But we’re okay, right? We can’t fall out over this.”
I give her a quick hug. “We’re okay,” I say.
But I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything anymore.
The silence of my apartment is a refuge after the boisterous restaurant. I’d walked away from the enticing pizza, but I have no appetite. I bypass the kitchen and head straight to my bedroom, stripping off my clothes and slipping into an oversized T-shirt. Exhaustion (or hunger? Or a glass of wine on an empty stomach?) is making me feel woozy, a little light-headed, but I’m usually diligent about removing my makeup at night. I enter the attached bathroom, just as my phone pings with a text.
I’d plugged it in next to my bed, so I hurry toward it. I’m hoping it will be Martha, apologizing for her harsh words against Theo. She’ll admit she’s still smarting from the affair accusation, from the physical fight between our partners. She’ll tell me that she never doubted that Theo was decent and good.
The text is from an unfamiliar number. I open the lock screen and read the words.
Here you go pedophile
And then, a horrifying image. It’s a young girl, maybe eight or nine, wearing lingerie, posed in a distinctly sexual manner. My stomach lurches into my throat and I toss the device on the bed in horror.
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
Over and over again, that little exploited girl comes into my messages. I feel sick to my stomach, panicked, assaulted. Grabbing the phone, I turn it off and throw it back onto the bedspread.
And then I collapse on the carpet, in tears.