Page 98 of High Season

“And you must be Hannah,” she says, aside. “So nice to meet you both.”

Josie doesn’t move her hand. She takes in the woman standing in front of her. A face that she recognizes from the dozens of videos she pretends not to watch, not to care about. She expected the plum-purple lipstick that she knows so well, the slick of eyeliner, the vocal fry, and the social-media-specific drawl. Instead, Imogen Faye has dark hair neatly pulled back into a ponytail, the red stripe barely visible. Pared back, clean makeup. A black cotton dress with thin straps. A clean, well-spoken American accent.

“You…”

“Yeah,” says Imogen, looking slightly bashful. “I’m not like in my videos? I know.”

She shrugs, spreads her arms wide.

“Truecrimefangirl is kind of an internet persona. I mean, who actually talks about murders like that in real life?” She laughs an embarrassed what-can-you-do laugh. “It started as a bit of a joke. But what can I say? People love truecrimefangirl_2002! I should probably introduce myself properly.”

She thrusts her hand toward Josie again.

“I’m Imogen. I’m a master’s student in criminology. I’m writing my dissertation on women who are scapegoated in extremely public murder trials, mostly due to factors like class and sexism, and all the other ways that society likes to decide that women are bad, or wrong, or don’t fit in with what they expect. And, I’m also truecrimefangirl_2002. An internet personality who talks about those public trials online, in a way that makes people sit up and listen.”

For a second, both women just look at her, stupefied. Hannah speaks first.

“So you’re a fraud?”

Her voice is sharp, surprising Josie.

Imogen smiles apologetically. Shrugs.

“Are any of us really who we say we are online?” she says. “I’m here to help. As Imogen Fayeandas truecrimefangirl.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit…morally questionable?” says Hannah. “Building a career and income around talking about dead girls on the internet isn’t exactly Feminism 101.”

Imogen doesn’t look at her this time. Instead, her eyes lock with Josie’s, as if Hannah hasn’t said anything at all.

Josie reaches out slowly, grips Imogen’s hand.

“Thank you for coming,” she says. “And thank you for believing me.”

Imogen smiles then, properly this time, a broad, open beam that takes Josie aback with its warmth.

“You don’t have to thank me,” she says. “Now. Let’s talk about what the eff happened to Tamara Drayton.”

THIRTY-FOUR

2004

ONE WEEK BEFORE THE BIRTHDAY PARTY

Tamara and Josie eat the cake at the end of the driveway, hands sticky with icing, buttercream smears in the corners of their mouths.

“Sorry I didn’t get you a present,” Tamara says. “The cake was kind of a last-minute thing.”

“My mum actually came home moaning about the ridiculous stuff your family asked her to do at short notice.”

“She did not.”

“She didn’t mention any names, but—”

“It’s a masterpiece. Mittens would have loved it.”

Josie shovels a mouthful of cake into her mouth. Swallows.

“I actually did get you something,” she says.