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THE FIRST THING I do the next morning is call in sick to work. I’m too shaky and too distracted to be there. It would be a disservice to the students if I went in. And I have important things to take care of. Like finding out who hacked into my email; who is hurting the people I care about; and who is so intent on destroying me that they will scorch the earth around me.

With a strong cup of coffee in hand, I first take steps to address the email hack. I try to log into the defunct Gmail account with my standard password, Liza123, but it doesn’t work. I try again, and again, but as suspected, someone has gotten into this account and changed the password. What other messages might they have sent from me? My writer friend Jody is always online. I text to ask if she’s received anything odd from this address. She responds instantly.

No, nothing. Why?

Promising to fill her in later, I try the password recovery options, but they don’t work. When I set up this account, when I chose such a lazy password, I hadn’t included a secondary email address or my cell phone number. Security was the last thing on my mind then. But not now. I report the breach to Google’s security, change the passwords on all my other accounts, and turn off location services on all my devices. It’s all I can do. That, and pray that Ingrid, or whoever is behind this, doesn’t use my account to inflict any more pain, to do any more damage.

Next, I do an analysis of my social media. When I’d first started my Instagram account, I’d only posted book photos. I’d taken an advance copy of Burnt Orchid with me on a scenic tour of the city, photographing it on a driftwood log at the beach; next to a neighbor’s blooming rhododendron bush; against a backdrop of bright-green, prehistoric-looking ferns. My plan was to keep the account promotional, maintaining my personal privacy. No pictures of Liza or Theo. Only one of myself, peeking out from behind the book cover. But then came my book launch party…

In the post-celebration afterglow, I’d posted a photograph of Theo and me, his arm around my shoulders, mine slipped around his waist. The caption read:

Thank you for your support @pacificadventures1 I couldn’t have done this without you. Love you! #burntorchid #adventuretourism #vancouver #beautifulbc

There was a picture of me standing between Martha and Felix, our eyes bleary with champagne, our smiles ecstatic.

Love you two so much! And not just because you make the best pastries and coffee in the city @cafesophia #grateful #friendsforlife #eastvan

I’d thought I was helping, maybe sending some customers their way. But I had also given Ingrid Wandry access into my world, handed her details of my private life and relationships on a silver platter. I am squarely to blame.

As I’m moving to the kitchen to refill my coffee, my phone rings. It’s my journalist friend Janine. I’d texted her last night, told her I needed to talk.

“Is it the girls?” she asks as soon as I answer. She’s driving and has me on speakerphone. Traffic hums in the background. “Or the haters?”

She knew without the benefit of intonation that my text meant nothing good. I tell her about Theo and Felix and Martha, trying to keep my voice level and calm. “I know it pales in comparison with what you went through,” I say, and emotion seeps into my words. “But Ingrid Wandry is hurting my friends. I’m upset.”

“Of course you are,” Janine says. “Having a stranger meddle in your personal life is terrifying. She sounds disturbed. And possibly dangerous.”

“I think so, too,” I say, no longer trying to hide my fear. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I know a cyber-security guy,” she says. “I did a story on him years ago when he was a teen hacker. He’s a little odd. He lives in a basement apartment filled with action figures. He was headhunted by Google, but he’s too antisocial. He’s expensive, but he’s a genius. He could find out who is behind this.”

“How much is he?” When she gives me a ballpark, I wince. There’s no way I could afford him. All of my salary is allocated to rent, groceries, utilities, and my daughter’s college fund. Maybe if Nadine makes an offer on my next novel, I could spend the advance on this expert. But there are no guarantees that she will.

“Keep him in mind,” Janine says. “Does this Ingrid woman have social media? You can find out a lot about a person through their posts.”

Don’t I know it. That’s how Ingrid learned about my boyfriend and my best friends. “She only has Instagram. And she doesn’t show up in any Google searches.”

“Look at the background of the photos she posted,” Janine says over a horn honking in the distance. “You might be able to see where she lives. Where she works or shops or exercises. See who she’s tagged, or the hashtags she uses. Do some digging.”

“But then what?” I ask. “How do I stop her?”

“I know a lawyer who’ll send her a cease-and-desist letter for a reasonable fee. Sometimes that’s all it takes.”

“And if it’s not?”

“You’ve been keeping records of all the harassment, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You can call the police. Have her charged with stalking and harassment. You might be able to sue her for defamation.”

“Okay.” My voice is small and weak. It all sounds so daunting. So expensive.

Janine’s tone shifts. “Does Liza know what’s going on?”

“Just that I’ve received some nasty emails. I haven’t told her much.”

“I don’t think you should burden her with this. Senior year is already so stressful. And according to Grace, there’s all sorts of drama swirling around right now.”

“Yeah, I’m aware.” But I’m not thinking about Liza. Though my daughter may be reconsidering her college plans, she seems happy, well adjusted. I’m thinking about Abby Lester. And I’m thinking about Fiona Carmichael. Yesterday, an anonymous tip had come into the portal claiming Fiona was threatening kids who knew what had happened at Abby’s party. When Vice Principal Carruthers confronted her, Fiona had denied it, of course. But it sounds like her MO.

“I want Liza to focus on school and friends and college,” I say. “I don’t want her worrying about me.”

“You’re a good mom, Cam.” Her words stir up my emotions, and I’m too verklempt to respond. “Call me any time,” Janine says. “And try not to worry. This too shall pass.”

Yeah, it will pass. Because I’m going to end it.