AND SO I wait for the information that will protect me and possibly crush me. Alone in the apartment, I clean, I putter, and I watch cooking shows on TV while my mind spins with possibilities. No one I care about would do this to me, I assure myself. My tormentor is a virtual stranger—a former student, a high school rival, an envious writer I met at a course. But Shane Miller has planted a seed that is sprouting into dark thoughts and disturbing possibilities. If someone I love is behind my abuse, how much would I be willing to forgive?
When my phone rings out in the silent space, I jump out of my skin. Most of those close to me aren’t speaking to me right now, and I worry it’s another prank call. But it’s my friend Jody inviting me to meet her downtown for a walk.
“You need to get outside, get back into real life,” she says cheerfully. Almost too cheerfully. Jody doesn’t know all that’s happened. I tell her about the graffiti on my car, about the shampoo squirted all over my bathroom.
“Someone has access to the building,” I say. “Someone has been inside my apartment.”
“All the more reason to get out of there then.”
She has a point.
Jody continues her pitch. “Fresh air, exercise, and a good gossip session will make you feel better. I promise. And I’ll buy you an iced coffee after.”
“Okay,” I agree. “See you in an hour.”
I always take the bus downtown and I decide it will be safe. I’ll be surrounded by people, and there’s a bus stop just down the street. I don’t want to stand there like a sitting duck, so I check the schedule. If I time it right, I can basically walk onto the number 2 bus headed downtown.
As I’d hoped, the ride is uneventful, the other passengers glued to their phones. I begin to relax as we fly over the scenic Burrard Street Bridge, drawing closer to my destination. There are several stops on the route, and I watch as passengers get on and off, calling thanks to the driver as they depart. (This city, for all its problems, has good manners.) And then a girl I recognize gets on, taps her card, and moves toward me.
Her name is Eva and she’s one of my twelfth-grade students. I’d helped her with her college applications, even written her a letter of reference for a scholarship application. She’s one of the kids who came to congratulate me when my book came out. But Eva will hate me now, like they all do. I turn my face away and stare out the window.
“Ms. Lane?” Eva’s words are tentative.
I turn back and look up at her. “Oh, hi, Eva.” I feign surprise.
I expect her to move on. To hurry to a seat and text her friends that she’s on the bus with Maple Heights High’s very own Cersei Lannister, but she hovers. “My friends and I don’t believe what everyone’s saying about you at school,” she says, leaning down to keep her voice low. “You’ve always been helpful and nice. We’ve never seen you act weird or creepy at all.”
“Thank you.” I blink back my emotions. They’re the nicest words I could hear right now.
“Take care,” she says, and moves toward the back of the bus.
I get off at a stop in front of a Gothic Revival cathedral, incongruous with the glass high-rises looming around it. I move with the crowd, just another anonymous person in the sea of tourists, shoppers, and businesspeople. Eva’s kind words have lifted my spirits. For a moment, I almost feel normal.
My friend Jody is there, on the allotted corner, looking fresh and breezy in her tights and T-shirt. She’s texting someone, a smile playing on her lips. But when she looks up and sees me, she shoves her phone into her pocket, rearranges her features into a suitably somber expression.
“How are you doing?” She gives me a hug, rubs my back consolingly.
“I’ve been better,” I admit.
We move out of the business district, heading north toward the waters of Coal Harbor. As we get up to pace, I open up about my editor’s letter, about my breakup with Theo, and about Liza’s estrangement.
“God, Cam.” Jody stops walking on the seaside path. I halt, too. “That’s so awful.”
My throat closes, so I respond with a nod. If I speak, I’ll start to cry.
“It’s too much all at once. You must be totally overwhelmed.”
A jogger rushes past us, buffeting us in his wake. The seawall is not a place to stand still. Jody takes me by the elbow and leads me to a bench in a small grassy park. We sit, side by side, my friend angled attentively toward me.
“I’m so sorry you’re going through all this. It will get better. I promise.”
“Thanks,” I manage to mumble.
“Have you talked to anyone?”
My brow furrows. “Anyone like who?”
“Like a therapist? Or a Reiki healer?” Jody is into alternative medicine. “Your adrenals must be totally shot right now. It’s a lot to process.”
“I haven’t,” I say with a sigh. “I’ll look into my medical coverage. Maybe I can see a therapist.”
“It would be good to clear away the negative energy and get some emotional support.”
It’s not a bad idea, but the thought of rehashing it all makes me feel weak. “Yeah, maybe.”
She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “I don’t want to lay any more on you, but there’s something you need to know.”
The hair at the nape of my neck prickles, but I feel oddly numb. There is literally nothing else that could go wrong. Is there? “Tell me.”
Jody takes a breath. “There’s a theory going around in some online writing communities that you did this to yourself.”
“Did what to myself?”
“The online harassment. A few people think that you faked it for the publicity.”
It’s ludicrous. I can’t help but laugh. “How would I even do that?”
“It wouldn’t be hard. You’d just have to set up a fake email account and fake social media accounts.”
“I’m not that technically sophisticated.”
“It’s really very simple to do.”
Something in her tone makes me bristle. “Who’s been saying this about me?”
“I don’t want to name names. I just wanted you to know.”
“Where are these groups? On Facebook? I’ll check for myself.”
“They’re private groups,” she says quickly. “You have to request membership, and no one’s going to approve you.”
“Do you think I did this to myself, Jody?” My voice has risen. “Do you think I destroyed my relationship with my daughter for fucking publicity?”
“Of course not,” she says. “I’ve been defending you. But people are saying you had no way of knowing it would go so wrong. That when you did this—if you did this—you didn’t expect it to affect your personal life.”
Jody was the one to alert me to the TikTok video, to notify me about the Twitter abuse. And now she knows about a cruel theory circling in private literary groups. Is my friend just really tapped into social media? Or is there more to it? Is she stoking the fires of vitriol against me? Or worse… could she have started these rumors?
I stand up. “I’m going to go.”
“Don’t go, Cam. Let’s walk.” She stands, reaches for my hand. “I’m sorry I brought it up. I just wanted you to be aware.”
“Yeah, thanks.” I pull my hand away. “I just really need to go home.”
I feel Jody’s eyes on me as I scurry away, but she doesn’t chase after me.
I move through the streets, my vision blurred with tears. So the writing community thinks I’m desperate, and manipulative, and crazy… and maybe I am. But I didn’t send those emails to myself. I didn’t create a maelstrom of attention for my book. I would never do that… no matter what those other writers think of me.
When I’ve put some distance between Jody and me, I stop to call an Uber. I’m on the verge of falling apart, and I’d prefer not to do that on public transit. As I wait on the corner for the white Corolla, I take deep breaths, try to calm myself. It doesn’t matter what the writing community thinks of me, because I’m out. I’m done. I’m not a writer anymore. But this line of thought is not at all comforting.
The white car pulls up and I climb into the privacy of the back seat. As we move through afternoon congestion, a few tears trickle down my cheeks, but I swipe them away. The visit with Jody has made one thing clear: Hiring the cyber detective was the right move.
I’m more determined than ever to identify my troll.