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“Hey.” I look up to see one of the women who was talking shit about Bex in front of the elevator two days ago hovering above me.

How was that only two days ago? She has a blond braid hanging over her shoulder and a white eyelet blouse with a high neck that looks expensive.

She’s paired it with a long denim skirt and the vibe could either be the pastor’s wife from Footloose or the founder of a natural wine company. Fashion has gotten so confusing.

“Hi,” I say.

“Can I sit with you for a second?”

“Sure.”

“I’m Cricket.” She reaches out a hand to me. “Crazy name, right?

“So you were Rebecca’s friend from back in school?” she says. As she settles into her chair, I see a table of her friends watching us. I wonder if she lost a bet and they made her be the one to come over here to talk to me.

I nod.

“I saw that in People magazine.” All I can think is what a strange way for me to end up in People magazine.

“And you’re also a creator?” I ask.

“Oh yes. An OG. Since the early days.”

“What’s your specialty?”

“I’m a whimsical playroom mom.”

“Oh. That’s highly specific.”

“You have to be these days. People love my whimsical playroom. I built it from scratch. But I also have a lot of homesteading, homeschooling, natural crafting, but I try to make it funny. I’m also getting into chickens. I’d love to be a henfluencer one of these days.”

“I didn’t even know that was a thing until yesterday,” I admit. Now I know there is an influencer for everything. Much like porn, if you can name a kink there’s an influencer for it.

“It’s huge. Chickens are big for engagement. Audiences love them. Rebecca started a lot of that. She’s had them forever. I think I can even name all of them.” She starts ticking names off on her fingers—Mary Lou, Brynnsleigh, Coley, Aimee, and Hennifer Aniston.

“How well did you know Rebecca?” I ask, and then correct myself. I have chills that I used the past tense about Bex. “Do you know her? Are you friends?” I ask even though I know the answer is no.

“Such good friends.” She taps her perfectly manicured fingernails on the table and seems to forget that I overheard all the nasty things she was saying about her good friend Rebecca less than forty-eight hours ago.

I’ve noticed that there are two camps of these influencers right now.

The ones who are amplifying whatever modicum of friendship they had with Bex and the ones who are pushing forward all their conspiracy theories about her being a killer.

Both camps are getting a lot of attention.

Like me they’re all surely seeing their follower count and engagement on social media increase.

But I play along.

“How long have you known each other?”

“So long. We both had our first babies around the same time. Of course, she went on to have more than me. I only have four.”

Only.

“We’ve been trying for a boy, but we haven’t been blessed yet.”

I finally recognize her from her social media. She does these videos where she wears matching outfits with all of her daughters and then raps about being a #GirlMom. If I’m remembering correctly she also promotes a lot of supplements. Her whimsical playroom does indeed look delightful.

“How many kids do you have?” she asks.

“Two.” Which to me still seems like an awful lot.

“And you’re a reporter. Are you writing a story about this? About Rebecca?”

“I am. Something went live hours ago, but I’m working on another one. Can I ask you some questions for it?”

“Oh, I don’t know if I should.” She definitely wants to. “I should probably check in with my hubs to see how he feels about it.”

This is something I haven’t heard before. Permission from a husband to speak to me.

“Sure. Ask your hubs.”

I pretend to go back to work while she sends a text.

“Ooooo, Chad—my hubby bubby—says I can talk to you,” the woman blurts out after her phone chimes seconds later. “But make sure to get my handle in there. Always be marketing, right?”

“Always,” I parrot.

“So I should tell you that not everyone is going to be as nice about Rebecca as I am. I mean I really respect her and everything she’s done, but there are some women who are real jealous or who think that Rebecca is always on her high horse, you know.”

“Right. But not you.”

“Definitely not me. She truly is an inspiration to me—you can use that quote if you want. She’s a pioneer in motherhood content.

She gave so many of us permission to create,” she spews from her gratitude lexicon.

“And my thoughts and prayers are with her and her children right now. And speaking of children. Have you heard anything about them?” Cricket is also clearly here to get information from me. I shake my head.

“I hope they’re safe. Whatever monster did that to Grayson…can you imagine if they get close to the children?”

It’s something I’ve been trying my best not to imagine, but of course I have been.

“Who knows what the police are actually doing—I don’t think they’re the most competent. But you know that Grayson has some powerful men behind him, behind his entire family.”

“Powerful men?”

“Church leaders, politicians, all of the rich guys who support the church and the politicians. We don’t live here anymore.

Chad got transferred out of state years ago.

But I still hear all the tea. A couple of years ago—and you can look this up, it isn’t just gossip—the wife of one of Grayson’s cousins—I think her name was Amelia—wanted to leave her husband and get a divorce.

She was in love with someone else.” She lowers her voice for the next part.

“With a man that she met online playing one of those virtual farming games.”

I express the appropriate amount of shock and surprise.

“Anyway…she kept the secret really well, but she confessed it to her doctor, her ob-gyn, Dr. Carmichael. He’s everyone’s doctor.

He delivered all my kids. Loved him. She did it when she went in for a postpartum checkup.

Thought it would be safe. But someone in his office must have overheard and called her husband right up and the whole town knew. ”

“Do you think it was Dr. Carmichael? Who called her husband?”

Cricket flinches. “He would never. The man is a saint. Was probably his secretary, Rita. She loved being up in other people’s business.

Anyway, the wife apologized and repented, and they went to couples counseling with the church.

But a year later she was in a car accident, drove straight off the road into the old oak tree on Route Twenty-Seven, dead on impact. ”

“Did she do it on purpose?” I think of that mother driving off the cliff.

“What do I know? But…I think someone ran her off the road. They wanted her out of the way. Her husband is remarried now, a recent college graduate. She’s pregnant already and he was just promoted in the church council. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

I should be surprised that she is telling me all of this insider information, but I’m not. People love spilling other people’s secrets and most of all they love feeling included and important.

“So the police will be useless, but if anyone can get to the bottom of this, it’s the women here. They know things. They hear things. But also…” She hesitates and then watches me in a way that makes it clear she wants me to prod her, so I do.

“What?” I lean in.

“If Rebecca didn’t do it—which I don’t think she did—I wouldn’t be surprised if someone very close to them had something to do with it.”

I must look genuinely shocked at her theory because she seems pleased when she clocks my reaction.

“Grayson Sommers made a lot of enemies in our community.”

“Tell me more,” I prod again. “We can be off the record. Who hated Grayson Sommers?”

“Some people looooooooved him.” She glances over her shoulder at the group of women huddled in the opposite corner, clearly watching us.

“You know how Grayson and Rebecca had that big thing on their Instagram about a year ago. The one where they, you know…every day. The Whoopie with Your Schmoopie.” I have to give her extra credit for being able to say both of those words out loud with a straight face.

I can hardly hear them without snorting so I simply nod.

“Well, I heard they did that because everyone was talking about Grayson maybe stepping out on Rebecca with one of the Smith triplets.”

The casual way she mentions it makes it seem like I should absolutely know who they are, that they are a household name.

Smith triplets? I try to remember. The name Smith is as ubiquitous as air, especially out here.

I’ve been here long enough to realize that.

I glance around the room, as if the answer will appear in front of me if I squint hard enough.

“Look them up.” She nods to my computer.

I tap in the name. Millions of hits. Oh right. I’ve seen them before. One sister is a blonde, another a redhead, and the third a brunette, which doesn’t seem like it can possibly be natural, but it makes for an excellent aesthetic.

It’s the third one who stops me in my search. She’s the statuesque woman from the day I checked in. The one who said we should talk at some point, the fifties housewife clone with impeccable makeup and buttery voice who ran into me as I was checking in. Veronica.

“Did the Smith triplets all come to the conference?” I ask.

“They’re here somewhere. They were supposed to do a panel.”

“All three of them?”

“Yeah. It was how to use AI to increase output and engagement. They’re masters of it.

They produce more content than everyone here combined and apparently they just have a bunch of robots doing it.

Artificial intelligence is soooo confusing, but I was excited about going to the panel to learn about it. ”

“Which triplet might have been with Gray Sommers?” I ask breezily.

“Veronica.” Bingo. Was that why she wanted to talk to me? Did she know I’m friends with Rebecca? Did she want to spill about the affair or maybe dig for her own dirt?