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Dear Camryn,

This is a very difficult email for me to write. I’ve been a passionate fan of your work since I read the manuscript for Burnt Orchid. Your insight into two disparate worlds—one of politics and privilege, the other of poverty and desperation—was so authentic and visceral that I devoured your pages in one sitting. Your voice is compelling, and your writing is fluid and accessible. But as you are well aware the release of your novel has been met with significant controversy.

Our publicity department has worked tirelessly to try to address the issues that have hindered the sales of Burnt Orchid, but to no avail. In fact, the negativity surrounding the book seems only to build. We, as a team, are not confident that another release from you would not be met with similar vitriol. While the outline you sent me was quite powerful, and I have no doubt you could turn it into another heart-rending, thought-provoking novel, we will not be able to publish it.

We wish you the best of luck placing it elsewhere. I’m confident that your talent as a writer will see you through these current travails, and you will have a long and successful career.

Warmly,

Nadine Sommers

The sun is sinking through the trees, the remnants of light dappling my living room. I’m on the sofa, watching the day drift away, preparing for a night of lying awake, wondering how it all went so wrong. My writing career is over, my dream dead after one book. Of course, I was going to let it go anyway—for Liza’s sake. But Nadine’s email, so official, so final, has still hit me hard.

I reach for the bourbon-and-Coke sweating on the coffee table and take a drink. Yuck. I thought a strong highball might make me feel better. Perhaps I just needed something to fulfill the ritual of the disillusioned writer, drowning their sorrows in whiskey. But I don’t like the taste. And I’m not Hemingway or Parker or Joyce. There is nothing romantic about my situation. It’s simply depressing.

Holly hasn’t mentioned dropping me, but I assume it’s just a matter of time. We are friends, but she’s an agent. Her job is to represent clients who can create work she can sell. Even if I were to write the most brilliant novel of the decade, no publisher will take a chance on me. Maybe I could write under a pseudonym? But eventually my editor would find out who I really was, and they’d back out. I’m a loose cannon, a liability.

Swirling the ice in my glass, I see that it’s half empty. Or is it half full? I try to look at my status through an optimistic lens. In the fall, I will apply at a different school, have a fresh start. I’ll work full-time again. The structure will be comforting; the pace will leave me too exhausted to need a creative outlet. My daughter will be happier with her mom out of the public eye. And the abuse will stop. Whoever was trying to ruin me has done it. They’ve destroyed my writing career, ended my romantic relationship, and my daughter hates me. “Well done,” I mutter, setting the glass down and pushing it away.

I try not to think about the summer stretching long and lonely before me. Without Liza, Theo, and my writing, I will have nothing but time on my hands. Time to find out who did this to me. It’s not about retribution—not really, anyway—it’s about knowledge. Because my troll could still be in my life. They could be a jealous acquaintance or even someone I love and trust. There is a simple way to find out, but it’ll cost me. It will mean maxing out credit cards, perhaps taking out a small loan, but it’ll be worth every penny. Because I have to know who did this to me.

Reaching for my phone, I dial.

“Camryn, how are you?” Janine doesn’t wait for me to respond. “I’m sorry I haven’t checked in. It’s just with grad and everything, I’ve been swamped.”

I should be busy with prom plans and grad festivities, but I’m not. I push away the hurt, get down to business. “I need the number of that cyber detective you know.”

“Sure,” she says. “I’ll send you his contact details.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll see you at the grad ceremony?” she says, a question in her voice.

I don’t want to get into it, not now. “Yep,” I say, and then I hang up.

Shane Miller is sitting at a wrought-iron table in front of a quirky independent coffee shop, a black coffee in front of him. I’m not sure who I was expecting (someone out of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo maybe?), but he’s not it. He’s a heavyset guy in his late twenties, balding, with cool glasses and groomed facial hair. When I’d called him yesterday, he’d suggested we meet at this café on Commercial Drive, close to his home office. He told me to bring my laptop.

“So,” he says, when I’ve grabbed a cup of coffee and joined him, “I looked at your social media last night. It’s pretty ugly.”

I nod, feeling foolish. “I know not to feed the trolls. But ignoring them wasn’t working, either. I thought it was worth a try.”

“Apparently not.”

There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes, and my temper flares. Shane Miller probably thinks I’m some Luddite boomer too unsophisticated to deal with the modern world. He’s wrong… I’m a Luddite Gen X’er. I dunk my lips in my coffee to keep from commenting. I can’t afford to piss this guy off.

“I can’t do anything about the haters,” Shane says, audibly slurping from his cup. “But I can identify who sent you the emails. Can you show me?”

Opening my laptop, I select the message from Ingrid Wandry and pass the computer to Shane.

“Fuck. Proton Mail.”

“Is that a problem?”

“It’s encrypted data sent to private servers. It complicates things. A lot.”

“Can you still do it?” My voice is tight with dread.

“I can do anything. For the right price.”

“How much?”

“I can’t give you a figure until I dig into this.”

“I’ll pay,” I say, even though I don’t know how I’ll get the money. I will sell my car, even my apartment, to know who is out to get me. “Just do it.”

He closes the laptop. “I’ll need to keep this for a few days.”

“That’s fine,” I say glumly. “I won’t be needing it.”

“When I have a name and address, I’ll contact you,” Shane continues. He leans back in his chair. “You need to emotionally prepare yourself. You might not like what I find out.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I’ve seen things go bad,” Shane says with a sigh. “I’ve seen friendships blow up and families come apart. Sometimes it’s better not to know.”

The thought makes the coffee churn in my belly, but I can’t back out. No matter who is behind my abuse, I’d rather know.

No matter how it may destroy me.