Page 27

INGRID WANDRY’S SMILING face fills my computer screen. Instagram is built for the phone, but I’ve opened it on my laptop for better viewing. I need to see Ingrid’s photos enlarged so I can look for details in the background. I click past the ocean scene and the cat to the image of my nemesis at the beach. But it won’t provide any clues. She’s clearly on vacation, in her flowy dress, a sun hat in her hand. People who live in seaside locales don’t dress like they’re in a romance novel. I live four blocks from the beach and don’t own anything so gauzy.

I peer at the photo of Ingrid drinking the purple smoothie. Zooming in on the image, I notice the clear plastic cup has a label, a green circle with white lettering, but I can only see the top few millimeters. It’s unfamiliar, though, not from a popular juice chain. Behind her shoulder, I notice signage peeping out, partial words. They’re slightly blurred but I can make out:

INE CLINIC

6 AVE SE

WA

Clinic. Why would Ingrid take a selfie outside a doctor’s appointment? I inspect her shirt—white, with a collar and a zip closure—and I realize it’s a uniform. Ingrid Wandry could be a doctor, a dentist, or a nurse. It shocks me that a woman in a healing profession spends her free time attacking people online. But maybe she feels it all evens out? On the breast pocket of her top, there’s an embroidered logo. The words aren’t visible, but a distinct image curls into view. It’s a tail. Of a dog or a cat. Ingrid works at an animal clinic. My nemesis is a veterinarian, or an assistant, or a receptionist.

WA stands for “Washington State.” It also stands for “Western Australia,” “West Angola,” and many other locales, but I start close to home. I google: Animal clinics in Washington State.

There are hundreds, of course, and my heart flutters with panic. It will be impossible to find her. But I take a calming breath and refine the search. Ingrid posted a picture of a cat, so I try: cat veterinarian. The results are diminished to something approaching manageable. I scroll through the results, and I find one that matches the partial signage.

PURR FELINE CLINIC

2705 156 AVE SE

BELLEVUE, WA

Pulse racing, I click the link to go to their website. It’s rudimentary, the landing page offering contact details and opening hours, but there is a link to a photo gallery. I scroll past the cats and the interior shots and take in the storefront. Purr is located in a nondescript unit in a strip mall in the upscale Seattle suburb. Two doors down, I note a sign for Emerald Juice Bar. When I click on their product images, I see it. The circular green logo on their clear plastic cups.

“I found you!” I say, slapping the desk with delight. I’m impressed with my investigative skills. Who needs Janine’s expensive cyber detective? But the feeling of euphoria fades quickly. Because what do I do now? Call the police? I know virtual abuse is rarely taken seriously by law enforcement. Should I contact Janine’s lawyer and send a cease-and-desist letter to Ingrid at the Purr address? Would it have any effect? My tormentor lives less than a three-hour drive away from me. Is there another, more effective way for me to handle this?

A key in the lock disturbs my reverie. I hurry toward it, already knowing that it’s Theo. He took the day off, too. Apparently black eyes are off-putting to tourists.

“How did it go?” I ask as he enters the apartment. He and Felix had met at Sophia’s to discuss last night’s mêlée.

“Felix apologized,” Theo mutters, moving into the kitchen. But all is clearly not forgiven. The physical pain is not the only lingering symptom. He pours himself a glass of water, takes a big drink, then turns to me. “The fact that he believed I’d sleep with Martha. And that you’d send an email like that. It pisses me off.”

“This isn’t Felix’s fault. It’s the troll’s.”

He puts the glass on the counter. “If you’d published your book under a pen name, none of this would have happened.”

I’m instantly defensive. “So this is my fault now?”

“No, of course not.” He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “But is Felix even our friend if he’s so quick to believe the worst? Of both of us?”

“He is our friend,” I say, but really, he’s my friend. Because he’s married to Martha, who will always be in my life. Theo and Felix don’t have the same history. Or the same loyalty.

“This is so fucked up, Cam.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You need to find out who did this and call the police.”

I should tell him that I’ve found her. That Ingrid Wandry is just across the border, that I could confront her face-to-face in a couple of hours, if I wanted to. But for some reason, I don’t tell him. Instead, I lie.

“I’m researching all the options,” I say. “Leave it with me.”