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THE LESTER FAMILY home is the back unit of a duplex on a leafy street, a half hour drive from Maple Heights High. Abby crosses boundaries to attend our school for its French immersion program, taking two buses each morning. At least she did. She is still refusing to return. She is humiliated, emotionally fragile, and socially ostracized. That’s why I’m here.

I’m sitting in the living room with Abby’s mom, Rebecca, while her dad, Craig, makes tea. When I offered to bring schoolwork over for Abby, to talk in a less structured, more comfortable environment, both parents scheduled time off work. Abby is academically gifted, and it would be a shame if this trauma wreaked havoc on her post-secondary future. But the Lesters and I are far more focused on the girl’s mental health than her university plans.

This home is understated but lovely. Sun streams through the south-facing bank of windows, illuminating a well-tended garden in bloom. Rebecca and Craig are both in healthcare, and they radiate warmth and compassion. I can see why this is a refuge for Abby. And my heart twists at the thought of these good people finding their daughter naked, covered in vomit, barely alive after an innocent slumber party.

“How is Abby doing?” I ask Rebecca as the kettle whistles in the background.

“The same,” she says, pushing back an auburn curl that’s escaped from her ponytail. She wears no makeup, but her skin is flawless. “She’ll be fine for a few hours, and then she retreats. She goes into her room, and she won’t come out. She won’t eat. She doesn’t sleep. She doesn’t shower.”

“Is she staying off her computer?” I know, personally, how triggering online hatred can be.

“We’re trying. But she needs it for school.”

“There’s parental control software you can buy to block internet access.”

Rebecca shakes her head, her pleasant features sad. “Like for little kids?”

“It’s for anyone who needs to keep their child safe from the dangers of the online world. No matter their age.”

Craig enters, a teapot, milk, and sugar on a tray. He’s slim and wiry, a runner, I believe. He sets the tray next to three pottery mugs. “Doesn’t Maple Heights have an anonymous reporting tool?” He sits next to his wife. “Has no one reported what happened that night?”

“Not in so many words, no. The girls who attended Abby’s party have a lot of social power. Frankly, they’re mean girls. And the kids are scared.”

“They’re heartless,” Rebecca says quietly as Craig pours the tea. “No one has reached out to ask how Abby is. No one has apologized.”

“What is wrong with their parents?” Craig places a steaming mug in front of me. “If Abby had ever been involved in something so awful, we’d be all over it.”

“You have some legal recourse,” I say, though it’s not really my place. “You could sue the girls’ parents.”

“Abby made us promise not to go after anyone,” Rebecca says. “She’s terrified.”

Craig adds, “Even she won’t tell us who else was at the party.”

Fiona Carmichael and her friends insist that a group of kids sneaked into Abby’s slumber party after Craig and Rebecca went to sleep. But of course they would say that. The invited guests all deny culpability, preferring to blame the mystery guests. But no one will name names. Not even through the anonymous portal. I can’t help but wonder if they are simply fictitious scapegoats.

“Do you think Abby would talk to me?” I ask gently. While I’ve been in regular contact with her parents, Abby has so far only spoken to an independent therapist. I understand her wanting to distance herself from the school, but we’d previously had a congenial relationship. Abby was one of the good ones: smart, engaged, and promising.

Craig and Rebecca share a look. “I don’t know if she’s ready,” Rebecca says.

“I understand. I just thought it might be easier…” But I trail off as I hear footsteps on the stairs. Abby shuffles into the room then. She’s got her dad’s height, an unconventionally attractive face, and her mother’s auburn curls. Her damage is apparent in her hunched posture, her slovenly dress, her lack of grooming. She moves directly toward the kitchen in a sort of daze, seemingly unaware of my presence. And then she glances over.

“No,” she barks, pointing at me as she backs away. “Not her!”

Rebecca seems flustered. “Ms. Lane brought some schoolwork, honey.”

“Get her out of here!” There are tears in the girl’s eyes and something else… fear. Abby Lester is afraid of me.

I stand, shaken and flushed. “I’m sorry, Abby. I just thought maybe—”

“Stay away from me!” She’s screaming now, tears running down her face. She turns to her parents. “Get her the fuck out of here! Make her leave!”

“You should go,” Craig says quickly, and I agree. As Abby’s parents rush to comfort her, I hurry to the door.

As I enter the school’s main office, Monica Carruthers is walking out, keys in her hand. “What’s wrong?” she asks. It’s obvious I’m rattled and unnerved.

“I just went to see Abby Lester,” I say quietly. “Can we talk in your office?”

“Of course.” Monica leads us inside and closes the door. She perches on the edge of her desk, and I sink gratefully into a chair. And then I tell her about Abby’s frightened outburst.

“It was such an odd reaction. And it was really upsetting.”

Monica sighs, runs a hand through her graying hair. “Do you think it could have anything to do with your book?”

“My book? I don’t understand.”

Monica gets up, moves around the desk to her chair. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

“What?”

“We’ve received some messages through the snitch portal.”

“About me? About my book? What did they say?”

“Some of the kids say they’re afraid to bring their problems to you now. In case you use them in your next novel.”

“Oh my god.” I half laugh with disbelief. “I would never do that. I’ve been a counselor a long time and I understand the importance of confidentiality.”

“I know.” But there is a hint of doubt in her voice.

“And my next book isn’t going to have kids in it.” I press my hands into my thighs. “Trust me.”

“I do trust you,” she says. “I know you’d never purposely betray these kids.”

“Or subconsciously, Monica. I was so careful. I am so careful. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Okay.” She stands, picks up her keys. “I was just heading out. Let’s hope this all dies down.”

Let’s hope.

I follow her out of the office.