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WHY DIDN’T YOU accept my calls? Why didn’t you respond to my texts?” Theo is sitting in Nancy’s spot on the couch, possibly still warm from her visit. When I texted him, he had raced over on his road bike, faster than crawling through traffic. He’s a little sweaty and his hair is mussed from his helmet, which makes him look adorable, even younger than he is. But his expression is grave, verging on angry. “I was worried sick about you,” he finishes.

“I’m sorry.” The apology is genuine. “I was overwhelmed and ashamed. I didn’t talk to anyone.”

“You don’t have to be ashamed with me, Cam. I should be your safe place.”

“I know. And you are,” I say, though I’m not sure it’s true, not the way Theo wants it to be, anyway. I sigh, press my fingers into my temples. “I went down a Twitter rabbit hole.” I tell him about the trending hashtag, the gif, the accusations. “I took your advice and I apologized from my heart. But it backfired.”

“I didn’t tell you to take on a Twitter mob,” Theo retorts, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

“But you told me that no one cares about my book as much as I do. And you’re right. My PR team told me to stay off social media, but everything got worse. I thought maybe if I’d apologized in the first place, this could have been averted.”

“Yeah but wading in at this stage was stupid. There’s a viral video of you losing your shit on network TV. You’re a punch line, Cam. You’re a cautionary tale.”

“I know.” Emotion wells up in me, but I swallow it down. “I’m pretty sure I’ve been doxed but I’m too scared to go back on Twitter to check.”

“Jesus Christ.” Theo gets up, paces in front of me. “You’re in danger here. Pack up some stuff. You can stay at my place.”

“I’ll be fine,” I tell him. “The building is secure. And you already have a roommate.”

“Liam can crash with a friend if it’s too crowded. I’m not leaving you here when a bunch of lunatics have your address.”

He has a point, but I can’t stay at Theo’s house. It’s a bachelor pad. It’s filthy. And even if Liza is staying with Adrian, I need to be accessible to her. “I appreciate the offer, but no.”

“It’s not up for debate. Get packing.”

My hackles rise with his controlling tone. “Theo, I said no.”

He stops pacing, turns to me with narrowed eyes. And then he laughs darkly. “Do I mean anything to you?”

“Of course you do.”

“You don’t reach out to me when all hell’s breaking loose. You don’t even take my calls. And now you won’t let me keep you safe.”

“This isn’t about you,” I retort, but Theo is making it so. It’s become a pattern with him. My first (and only) writers’ festival had been a supposed slight against him when I wanted to go alone. He’d pouted because I hadn’t told him about my (admittedly stupid) plan to drive to Bellevue. And now he’s miffed that he won’t get to save me from the bogeymen outside my building.

“Nothing ever is,” he mutters, heading to the door, his so-called protector role forgotten in his anger.

I trail after him, my ire up. “When I got my book deal, did you tell Felix that you were going to be third in my life—after Liza and Burnt Orchid?”

“Oh my god.” He whirls around. “It was a throwaway comment over a couple of beers. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Felix thought you did.”

“You’re going to listen to the guy who thought I was sleeping with his wife? The guy who punched me in the fucking face?”

Again, Theo is the focus. Theo is the victim. “Answer me,” I continue. “Are you jealous of Burnt Orchid?”

“I’m not jealous of your stupid book,” he snaps. “And I’m not some fucking teenager who can’t control his emotions. But was our relationship a lot better before you published Burnt Orchid? Yeah, it was.”

I look at his attractive face turned ugly with anger. I see the cold disdain in his eyes. I’d told Jody I didn’t know anyone who loathed me enough to harass me this way, had thought Rhea was the only one who would revel in the death of my writing career. But Theo…

When I open my mouth, my voice sticks in my throat. These words, when uttered aloud, will change everything. They will destroy us, no matter the response. But I have to ask.

“Did you pretend to be Ingrid Wandry and send me that horrible email?”

Theo takes a step back, like I’ve slapped him, like I’ve spat in his face. He shakes his head as if his ears can’t be trusted. “You didn’t just ask me that.”

“Just tell me,” I croak.

“If you really think I could do something like that to you, then this relationship is over.”

Tears well in my eyes, and my throat is thick. “Answer me,” I say.

“Fuck you, Cam.” Grabbing his bike, he wrenches it over to the door. I watch him struggle into the hallway, disappear without looking back. It’s over. I’ve lost him. And my heart breaks.

But still… Theo never denied sending that horrible message.

Heading to my bedroom, I turn off my phone and collapse onto the bed. I’m still tense and on edge, but I’m also despondent, unmoored, and exhausted. I haven’t slept and now my system is overloaded; it’s shutting down. I pass out for two hours, maybe a little more, until the buzz of my phone wakes me. I’d set it on Do Not Disturb, so that only my emergency contacts can get through. That means this call is from my mom or my sister in Toronto, Liza, Adrian, or Theo. I want it to be him, calling to tell me that he didn’t do it. To assure me that he still loves me, and that we can get through this. But it’s Adrian’s name on the call display. I answer.

“Hey. How’s Liza?”

“She’s angry. And embarrassed.”

“I fucked up. I’m so sorry.”

“We need to talk about how we’re going to handle this going forward. Your address was shared on Twitter.”

Fuck. Now it’s confirmed.

“I’ve reported the tweets,” Adrian says, “but it’s not safe for Liza to be there right now.”

“I know.”

“She can stay here, of course, but Tori and I are taking Savannah to the UK next month. We’d like to talk to you about a plan for while we’re away.”

“I don’t want to talk to Tori.”

“What do you mean? Tori is Liza’s parent t—”

“No, she’s not.” There’s no point telling him about our pizza interaction, about Tori’s bitterness toward Adrian’s mother, my daughter, and me. “We’re Liza’s parents, Adrian. I only want to talk to you.”

“Fine,” he mutters, lowering his voice. He’s clearly afraid Tori will overhear. “Then let’s meet somewhere. Grab a beer?”

I look at the bedside clock. It’s already four twenty-five. I haven’t left the apartment all day, and while I’m still nervous, I can’t remain on house arrest forever. My car is in the secure garage. I can drive out and survey the scene, look for any dangerous characters while safely ensconced in my vehicle. “Give me half an hour,” I tell him.

Despite my mental assurances, I’m uneasy as I ride the elevator to the basement. I know the gate is locked, that this building is secure, but I also know bikes have been stolen from the underground lockup, that determined thieves have managed to gain access. When the doors slide open, my pulse is thudding in my neck and my mouth feels dry and papery. But I walk briskly to my Mazda. I am almost there when I see it.

White spray paint is splattered across the hood of my car in letters large but illegible from this angle. I hurry to the front of the vehicle and read the word stretched across the blue surface:

PEDOPHILE

My face burns with embarrassment, and I glance around for any witnesses. I touch the paint, and it’s tacky, slightly wet. My stomach plummets. Despite the locks and the key fob entry, someone got in here. That means they could get into the building, too.

It means that even behind locked doors, I’m not safe.