THE NEXT MORNING my eyes are red and sandy, and my teeth feel loose, my jaw bruised. Stress has always caused me to grind my teeth, much to my dentist’s alarm. When I was trapped in my toxic marriage, I’d worn a mouth guard at night to save my molars. I stopped when we divorced. I thought the habit was gone along with my husband. (And I didn’t want Theo to see me in such an unsexy appliance.) But the problem, and the tension, are back.
I don’t want to turn my phone on. I know that my service provider will try to resend the texts that I missed while it was turned off, and I can’t stomach that disturbing image again. But my phone is a lifeline to my daughter, my boyfriend, and Martha, whom I’m still hoping will send an olive branch. So I turn it on and block the mysterious number. I’m too frightened to try calling it, too afraid of who might answer, what they might say. I keep the texts, though. Because I now know what I need to do.
In the kitchen I make coffee—extra strong—hoping it will clear my fuzzy head. As it brews, I get my laptop and set it on the coffee table. When the coffee is ready, I pour a cup and move to the sofa. I drink nearly half the mug, waiting for the caffeine to hit my bloodstream, to give me the energy and the courage. And then I log on.
I’d kept my promise to Olivia not to read the online hatred and vitriol, to rely on Jody’s sanitized translations. But I’m ready for the abuse now. The trolls can call me ugly, fat, and old. They can say I’m a terrible writer, that I don’t deserve to be published, that I only got a book deal because I’m a woman. They can tell me to kill myself, that they hope I get raped or tortured. I’ve steeled myself for it. Because I need to find out who is doing this to me, so I can call the police and make it stop.
The one-star reviews, as expected, are heinous. But the last one was posted several days ago. My jaw relaxes slightly. My publicist was right. If you don’t feed them, the trolls will shrivel up and die, lose interest, move on to more combustible targets. My eyes drift over the write-ups, words like predator and pedophile seeping into my consciousness. But there are no clues to the identity of the authors. And there are no outright threats that I can take to the police.
There are good reviews, too, and I try to summon gratitude for the support, for the fact that there are still people who are enjoying my work, who don’t believe the horrible accusations. I’d wanted to share Burnt Orchid with the world, to offer people an escape from their real lives, had hoped they’d develop compassion and understanding for those living in harsher worlds, forced to make difficult choices. It’s comforting to know that in some cases, I’ve achieved the desired effect.
And then I see a word—a name, in fact—that stops my scrolling cold. Adrian Fogler. My ex-husband.
I was married to the author for several years, and she is a sick woman. She loved telling me personal stories about the kids she worked with. I’m not surprised she’d write about them.
I’m shocked and appalled, but I know the review wasn’t written by Adrian. Like most people who don’t read voraciously, he’s never heard of Readem. And he would never do this to me. For all the issues we had in our marriage, we share a child. We still care about each other. He’d never attack me this way.
I’ve seen enough. Picking up my phone, I call the police non-emergency line, and after a series of questions and an interminable hold time, I’m patched through to a female officer.
“I need to report a case of criminal harassment,” I say, keeping my voice strong and steady. “I’ve received threatening emails, prank phone calls, and disturbing texts. I’ve had a barrage of online hatred on a book review site. I’ve kept all the evidence.”
“Okay,” the female officer says, clearly taking notes. “Can you tell me your relationship to the person who’s been harassing you?”
“I don’t know who it is. But it’s someone who knows me.”
“How can you be sure they know you?”
I tell her about the calls and texts to my private number, about the hacked email sent to my friends, and about the reviewer impersonating my ex-husband. I leave out my trip to Bellevue, of course. While I don’t think my visit was technically illegal, it would certainly be frowned upon. And I’ve been scolded enough in the past weeks.
“So this is mostly related to people not liking a book you wrote?”
The officer is diminishing it, making me sound sensitive and precious. “No, that’s not what it’s about,” I snap. “It’s about dangerous accusations of child exploitation that are completely—”
“Look,” the woman says, cutting me off. “If you knew who was behind this, we could talk to them or serve them with a warning letter. But there’s really nothing we can do without an offender.”
“I have an email address,” I say quickly, bringing Ingrid Wandry’s message up on my phone. “Ingrid.Wandry@proton.me. Can you trace it?”
“Proton Mail has end-to-end encryption. It’s basically untraceable. And they’re probably texting you from a burner or an anonymous texting app.” She’s glib, almost bored.
“Isn’t it your job to investigate crimes?” I ask.
“Without a direct threat to your safety, or your family’s safety, we don’t have the resources to investigate something that, so far, is simply an annoyance.”
“They sent me a pornographic image of a child!” I cry. “That’s an assault in itself!”
She asks for specifics of the photo, which I grudgingly give her. She tells me that the image, while revolting, doesn’t meet the legal definition of child porn.
“Keep a log of the harassment,” she advises. “When you have a credible suspect, call back.”
Without a goodbye, she hangs up.
I don’t know how long I sit there, feeling stunned and powerless, but my cup of coffee is cold when I hear a key in the lock. Theo walks in, a burst of fresh air and the scent of warm pastries preceding him. “I brought breakfast,” he says cheerfully. But when he sees my face, he stops short. “What’s wrong?”
I hurry to him and fall into his arms. I tell him everything (everything except how I recently learned that my best friends have never liked him and think he’s wrong for me). I tell him about the horrible image I received, about the nasty review using Adrian’s name, and I tell him that the police can’t—or won’t—do anything to help me.
“It’s going to be okay.” He strokes my hair.
“Is it, though?” I pull back. “It’s just getting worse. More personal and more invasive.”
My phone pings then, and acid burns my throat. I’m too scared to look, afraid it might be something disgusting, but Theo hurries toward it, looks at the screen. “It’s from Adrian.”
He passes it to me, and I open the message.
Hey. Do you want to come for dinner tonight?
Adrian and I may care about each other, but we don’t socialize.
Is this about the review?
What review?
I knew he didn’t write it. Doesn’t matter, I text.
Liza wants us all to get together, he writes back.
I know, without asking, that she will be announcing her plans for the fall. And I have a strong feeling they will not include university. Does this invitation include Theo? I wonder. He doesn’t have a parental role in Liza’s life, unlike super mom Tori. But he is my partner. And after Martha’s dismissive words, I’m feeling defensive and loyal to him. So I text back.
Theo and I would be happy to join.