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THE THREE OF us sit at a quiet table in a darkened corner of the hotel bar. It’s already ten o’clock, but it’s Miami. This place is clearly a starting point for a night of fun and debauchery for many of the hotel guests. Drinks, laughter, and conversation flow. While we order three Negronis from an attractive server in a bandage dress, the mood at our table is far more subdued. It’s my fault. I can’t shake off the hangover of the attack.

“She was really coming for you,” Timothy says, bringing his drink to his lips. “Some people love to be angry.”

“Security had to be called at one of my events,” Zoe contributes. “It was just after I hit the Times list with my second book. A woman in the audience was screaming at me. She didn’t like the way I handled a sexual assault in my novel.”

“I’ve never been confronted like that,” Timothy says, his brow furrowed. “Am I just lucky? Or do you think it happens more to women?”

“People are much more comfortable attacking women and people from marginalized communities,” Zoe says. “It’s always been that way.”

“I agree,” I say, thinking about Janine’s experience. “I’ve been getting the same kind of attacks online.” I tell them about Ingrid’s nasty email, her bad review.

“Been there,” Zoe says. “I no longer let readers contact me directly. They have to go through my agent now.”

“Did you ever respond?” I ask. “Did you ever try to reason with them?”

“You can’t. They’ll twist your words and use them against you.” She leans closer, her dark eyes troubled. “Do you remember Chloe Winston?”

The name is familiar, but I can’t place it. Zoe elaborates.

“She was big. Her fantasy novel hit all the lists about five years ago. And then she was accused of plagiarism by another writer.”

“Shit,” says Timothy, his big square ice cube clinking in his glass.

“Their concepts were similar, but Chloe’s book was all her own. Her publisher stood by her, but this guy had a huge Twitter following.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“Chloe went after him. She called him out as bitter, jealous, and entitled.” She takes a sip of her cocktail. “And then the trolls destroyed her.”

“What do you mean?”

“They bombarded her posts with negative comments. They left her thousands of scathing reviews. They basically killed her book. And her career.”

I down the remains of my drink, hoping the alcohol will ease the flicker of anxiety in my belly.

“She couldn’t take it anymore. She backed out of her two-book deal. Chloe disappeared from social media after that. I still see her for coffee on occasion. She’s a brilliant writer, but she’s not willing to put herself out there again.”

“Shame,” Timothy says.

Our server approaches carrying a single drink on her tray. “One Negroni.” She sets it in front of me and addresses my companions. “Would you two like another?”

“I didn’t order this,” I tell her, not that it’s unwelcome.

“Courtesy of the blond lady at the bar.”

All four of us look toward the bar for the source of the drink.

“Oh…” our server says. “She’s gone.”

Timothy sees me blanch. “It was probably someone from the audience tonight who felt bad you had to deal with that nasty piece of work.”

Maybe. But I’m unnerved. My mind races as Zoe and Timothy order two more drinks. When the server leaves, I speak in a thick voice. “I got a bouquet of flowers when I arrived. The card said: I can’t wait to see you.”

“Who were they from?” Timothy asks.

“The card wasn’t signed. I thought they were from my boyfriend, and he meant he couldn’t wait to see me when I got home. But maybe they were from someone who couldn’t wait to see me here? Onstage?”

“It’s possible,” Zoe says. “And the sentiment could have been sincere.”

“Did you see the woman in the audience tonight?” I ask.

“The lights were shining in my eyes,” Timothy says. “I couldn’t see a thing past row four.”

“Same,” Zoe says. “Why?”

I shrug. “I looked up the woman who’s been attacking me online. She’s blond.”

“A lot of people are blond,” Zoe says gently. “Does that Ingrid woman even live in Miami?”

“I don’t know where she lives,” I say, pushing the drink away. “I’m going to call it a night.”

“Are you sure?” Zoe asks.

“Stay,” Timothy says. “We’ll get you a fresh drink if you’re worried about it.”

“I’m just tired,” I say, smiling as I stand. “Everything will seem a lot less daunting in the morning.”

We say our goodbyes, our great to meet yous, our see you on social medias. Then I hurry out of the bar, alone.