Page 31

INGRID RISES, AND the cat scampers away. Her expression is troubled as she turns to face me. “Can I help you?” She sounds hostile and suspicious. She doesn’t recognize me yet. I move closer.

“I’m sorry to show up here, unannounced. I’m not angry. I’m not upset. I just want to talk to you.”

“Who are you?”

“It’s me,” I say, but her expression is blank. I know my author picture is more flattering than reality, but I don’t look that different. “I’m Camryn Lane.”

“I don’t know you.”

“I’m the author of Burnt Orchid.”

“Uh… good for you.” She backs away, like she’s scared. Of me. Like I’m the one who’s unhinged and dangerous.

“You’ve been harassing me online, Ingrid.” I keep my voice calm. “And I’d like to know why. What have I done to make you so angry?”

“My name isn’t Ingrid.” She walks briskly toward her house. “And I have no idea what you’re talking about. Please leave me alone.”

And I believe her. Her anxiety is real. Have I somehow gotten this all wrong? Have I been catfished, fooled into believing an innocent stranger has been harassing me while the real perpetrator slides under the radar? The woman I thought was Ingrid is climbing her steps now, eager to get away from me. “Wait. Please.” My voice cracks with emotion, and it causes her to pause. “Someone is using your image online. They’ve made it look like your name is Ingrid Wandry, the woman who’s been trolling me.”

She moves to the railing, looks down at me from her front porch. “Where did you see my photos?”

“On Instagram.” I take a few steps forward, so I don’t have to yell. “There’s a profile with the name Ingrid Wandry. But they’re pictures of you. Even your cat.”

She unzips her backpack and pulls out her phone. I stand by as she brings up the page. “What the hell…?”

“I’m an author,” I explain, edging forward lest I spook her. “Someone’s been using your face and a fake name to harass me.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“I believe you.”

Her eyes are on her phone. “These photos are from my private Instagram page. Only my followers can access them.”

“So my troll is someone you know.”

She looks up, her eyes guarded. “I don’t know all my followers.”

“But you probably know most of them. Can you think of anyone who might do something like this?”

“No. Of course not.”

Movement in the front window catches my eye. A young man peers out at us for a moment. He is fair and slim, probably in his early twenties. There is nothing unusual about him… except for the way he ducks out of sight.

“Who was that?”

“My nephew.”

“Does he follow you on Instagram? Could he know something about this?”

The possibility flits across her features. “No, he wouldn’t do that.” But I can tell she is not convinced. And neither am I.

“Can I talk to him please?”

“I think you’d better leave.” She has closed ranks, gone into protective mode. “This has nothing to do with him or me.”

I move closer, even as she draws back. “I’ve been mercilessly harassed for over a month. I’ve had abusive, misogynistic messages sent to me, even rape threats. My book has been bombarded with bad reviews.” My voice is rising, desperation making it shrill. “I’ve had prank phone calls. My email’s been hacked. Someone is trying to hurt me. Someone using your face.”

“I—I’m sorry that’s happening to you.” She’s flustered—confused and afraid. “But like I said, I know nothing about it.”

I should be more sensitive to her unease, but frustration takes over. “You could help me!” I practically scream at her. “Why won’t you help? What is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?” She’s angry now. “You just showed up at my house, screaming accusations. How did you even find me? Did you follow me home from work? Have you been spying on me?”

“Someone you know is harassing me. They’re trying to tank my book and destroy my career. I’m angry and I’m terrified. But you’d rather protect them than help me. That’s cruel,” I spit. “And it’s heartless.”

Movement in the window catches my eye. The young guy is back, and he’s holding his phone up. “Is he filming us?”

She glances over at him. “Looks that way.”

“Stop!” I yell, waving my arm at the boy in the window. “You don’t have permission to film me.”

“You’re screaming at me on my property!” Not-Ingrid yells back. “You’re making insane accusations! Get out of here before I call the police.”

“Please,” I try, one last time. “I’ve come a long way to talk to you.”

But the woman ignores me, and she looks ready to dial her phone. It hits me then how this could look to a cop. An American cop. I turn and hurry back to my car.

The drive home is a blur, my mind replaying the ugly confrontation, swimming with unanswered questions. Ingrid Wandry doesn’t exist. The face I’d considered my nemesis has never heard of me. At the border, I lie to the guard, tell her I met a friend for lunch, stopped at Target but didn’t buy anything. When I pull up to my building, I scarcely remember how I got there. I parallel-park the car on the street. I have an allocated spot in the underground lot, but I feel too unnerved, too vulnerable to go into a dark, secluded space right now.

My feet are heavy as I make my way to the front door of my building. I’m eager to see my daughter, to order some sushi and then have a hot bath. The late-spring sun is still high, though it’s nearly eight o’clock now. Families are gathering outside the gelato shop kitty-corner to my building, children hopped up on sugar squealing with joy. It’s a beatific scene, but a prickle of fear runs up my neck. I have the distinct sensation that I’m being watched.

I pause to survey the people on the streets, but no one is looking my way, so I turn to the row of parked cars. My eyes rove down the line of vehicles, and as they land on a silver Volkswagen Golf, it suddenly animates. With a roar of the engine, the car jerks out of its parking spot. There is something panicked and guilty in its departure. And its speed is concerning, with so many kids in the area. I move back to the sidewalk for a better view. As the car stops at a traffic light, I see the driver. It’s a boy, tall and broad but only a teen. He’s wearing a cap, but it looks a lot like Wyatt.

When I enter the apartment, Liza is sitting at the breakfast bar, a chemistry textbook laid out before her. Beside her is a half bottle of kombucha and a bowl of trail mix. She looks up. “Hey.”

“Was Wyatt here?

“No. I know you don’t like him to come over when you’re not here.”

“This isn’t about that.” I move into the kitchen, lean my forearms on the counter in front of her. “I won’t be mad. You just need to tell me the truth.”

“Mom, he wasn’t here.”

“Does he have a car? A small silver Golf?”

“No.”

“Do his parents?”

“I don’t know what his parents drive. They’re never home when I’m there. God, Mom. What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing. I just thought I saw him drive off.”

“Well, you didn’t.”

“Okay.” I press my fingers into my eye sockets until I see stars. I’m physically and emotionally exhausted. It’s entirely possible I’m hallucinating.

“Why don’t you relax? All this book stuff is getting to you.”

“I’ll try,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“Go have a bath. I’ll bring you a kombucha.”

Obediently, I stumble toward the bathroom.