WHEN I SEE Constable Kash’s towering form heading for his office, I hustle toward him. I could call out, make him pause, but the hallway is full of students shuttling between classes, and I don’t want to draw attention to this confab. The twelfth-grade counselor in private consultation with the school cop is fodder for the rumor mill. “Do you have a sec?” I ask, poking my head inside before Kash can close his door.
“Sure.” He invites me into his tiny quarters, perhaps even smaller than mine. But Kash’s space is furnished with a simple tabletop desk and two utilitarian chairs, making it feel more spacious. My large ergonomic chair and metal filing cabinet may have been a mistake. When we are seated facing each other across the table/desk, Kash asks, “What’s up?”
I inhale deeply. Kash and I work well together; we have a rapport. I appreciate the way he handles the students—with firm kindness, strict compassion. I am hoping he can help me. He feels like my last hope.
“Someone is harassing me,” I tell him in a shaky voice. “I called the police, but they say they can’t help me.”
“Harassing you how?” he asks.
I start small, telling him about the emails, the reviews, the phone calls, the flowers, and the pizza delivery.
“Those sound like pranks,” he says. “You know most school staff have been targeted at one time or another: air let out of their tires, eggs thrown at their house, a fake Facebook account made of them… It’s annoying but it’s not dangerous.”
“It’s gone beyond that,” I say, lowering my voice, though we are alone. I tell him about the disturbing images of the little girl, the death threats, the hacking of my computer to interfere in my friend’s marriage.
“That doesn’t sound like kids,” he says. “That sounds like adult behavior. And it sounds personal.”
“It is personal.” My voice wobbles with emotion. “Someone who knows me is doing this. And I’m scared it’s escalating. I have a daughter to protect.”
“Any ideas who might be behind it?”
“I’m narrowing it down.”
“If you have a viable suspect, I could pay them a visit.” He sits up straighter, as if to highlight his size. “Sometimes, seeing me on the doorstep poking around is all it takes to get someone to stop.”
“I appreciate that, Kash. I’ll let you know.”
He sighs, rubs a hand over his stubble. “I wish there was more we could do, but online abuse is tricky to investigate, and even trickier to prosecute. We’d like to set up a task force, but we just don’t have the manpower.”
I nod, feeling forlorn but also like an asshole. I know how bad things are in the city. I know there’s been an increase in violence, in property crime, in substance abuse. My harassment pales in comparison.
“In the meantime, keep track of everything that’s happening so that—”
I interrupt because I know the drill. “Thanks, I will.” I get up to leave, and then pause. “Any news on the Abby Lester situation?”
“Nothing,” he says. “No one’s talking.”
“Do you think there were other kids there that night?” I ask. “Or did Fiona, Lily, and Mysha make that up to protect themselves?”
“They probably made it up. If there were other kids there, then why wouldn’t the girls turn them in? Unless these mystery kids are even more terrifying than Fiona and her crew.”
“That’s hard to imagine.”
“Yeah,” Kash says. “I thought Abby might open up now that she’s left the school, but those girls did a number on her. She’s still scared shitless.”
“I hate that they’re getting away scot-free,” I say. “What’s to stop them from doing something cruel and heartless to someone else?”
“I agree. If you hear anything…” But he trails off. Because I won’t hear anything, not now that Abby’s been driven out of this school. It’s over.
“Sure. Thanks,” I mumble, and head into the hallway.
After work, I take the bus downtown to meet Martha. Parking in the city is both a nightmare and a fortune, and taking transit allows me to have a few drinks. My nerves are taut and jangly from recent events; a drink or two will take the edge off. And some liquid courage will help me broach the subject of Rhea. The sense of betrayal has dissipated since I learned of their friendship. I doubt Rhea would bad-mouth me to my oldest and dearest friend, nor would Martha stand for it. What I want is Martha’s insight. Because Rhea McMillan is now top of my suspect list.
Martha had texted me the evening after I’d turned up at Sophia’s.
Sorry I missed you at the café. Want to come to Felix’s next gig with me?
I didn’t really. I don’t hate jazz like Theo does, but I wouldn’t say it’s in my top seven musical genres. But I knew that this invitation was an olive branch, so I said yes and suggested we grab a bite before the show. It would be difficult to talk with Felix freestyling in our ears.
I step off the bus on the seedy Granville strip, home to most of the city’s nightclubs, and a burgeoning community of homeless young people. Head down, gait brisk, I move west toward the Davie Village, the city’s vibrant and funky gay district. Felix’s trio will play at a hole-in-the-wall bar later tonight, so Martha and I are meeting at a cozy taverna for Greek food first.
She’s there, looking bohemian and sexy with dangling earrings and a peasant-style top. We order wine and a trio of dips to start, and then I get down to business.
“I saw Rhea McMillan at the café. Felix said you’re friends.”
“We’re friendly,” Martha corrects me. “She comes into the café to write sometimes. She lives in the neighborhood.”
“Has my name ever come up?”
“Of course. When I realized she was a writer, I mentioned you. Rhea said you used to be in the same writing group before you got published.”
“What else did she say about me?” Our server sets two glasses of wine on the table. Martha picks hers up before responding.
“Not much. She said you’re a great storyteller. We mostly make small talk.”
“But Felix said you took a class with her.”
“It was a meditation class, Cam. Not a lot of chitchat.”
I take a fortifying sip of wine. “Rhea sent links to my bad reviews to everyone in the writing group. She pretended to be concerned, but she loves that I’m being attacked online. She’s reveling in it.”
“Really?” Martha asks as the dips materialize. “That’s so mean.”
I grab a pita wedge, scoop up some tzatziki. “She didn’t like a critique I gave her in class once. She’s hated me ever since.”
“I thought that was the point of writing groups?” Martha asks through a mouthful of hummus. “She’s never said anything negative to me. Is she really that spiteful?”
“My friend Navid thinks so.” I take a sip of wine. “Do you think she’s capable of harassing me online?”
“Oh my god.” Martha leans forward. “You think Rhea’s behind all this?”
“She knows me, you, and Felix. She’s jealous of my success. And I shared some very personal short stories in class. Rhea knows a lot about me.”
“Wow…” Martha reaches for her wine. “Is she tech-savvy enough to hack you? When she comes into the café, she handwrites in a notebook like Jane Austen.”
“That’s probably so she looks more literary and poetic.” I roll my eyes. “It doesn’t mean she doesn’t know how to use a computer.”
“I guess it’s possible.” But I read the doubt on Martha’s face.
“The only other person I can think of who might do this is Tori.”
“Adrian’s Tori?” Martha’s eyes are big with surprise. “I thought you were civil with each other.”
“We are. We were. But I dropped by there the other night, and she was positively venomous.”
My friend leans back in her chair, head clearly reeling, like mine has been for the past few weeks. Martha waves to our server for two more glasses of wine and then says, “There’s something you should know.”
The pita bread in my stomach turns to lead. “What?”
“Felix told me not to tell you, but I can’t keep this from you.” She swallows audibly. “When you got your book deal, Theo was not happy.”
Not this again. “He was, Martha. He celebrated with me.”
“He told Felix that he was already second to Liza and now he was going to be third after Burnt Orchid.”
Heat creeps into my face. I don’t know what I’m feeling: confused, embarrassed, betrayed… but I’m not sure by whom.
Martha continues. “Felix cares about you. The comment landed wrong with him. He felt that Theo was being childish. And possessive.”
“So you think my boyfriend has been trolling me? And scaring the shit out of me?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“You think Theo got into my computer and sent that email to Felix? Felix beat him up! That doesn’t make any sense!”
“Please, Cam.” She reaches for my hand. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I just want you to have all the information.”
I squeeze her hand back. “Okay. I got it.”
A plate of moussaka lands before me then. I eat it, but I taste nothing.