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IT’S 11:17 P.M. when Shane Miller calls, jarring me from a melatonin-induced sleep. It’s a rude and ridiculous time to phone, but I guess cyber-security experts don’t keep regular office hours. Luckily, I’ve added him to my emergency contacts, so the call rings through.

“I’ve got a name and a home address,” Shane says.

My groggy mind struggles to process the enormity of his words, and for a moment I float in that liminal space. Shane knows the identity of my troll. He holds the information that will change my life. But until he shares it with me, I still don’t know who I can trust. Is this a Schr?dinger’s cat scenario? (I’ve never understood quantum mechanics.)

“I can meet tomorrow morning,” Shane continues. “How’s eleven?”

“That works,” I say quickly. “Can you tell me anything now? Even a first name?”

“No money, no name.”

“Initials even?”

“This isn’t a game.” He shuts me down. “What I did for you was not simple or technically aboveboard.”

“Sorry.”

“Let’s meet at the same café. I prefer to be paid in cash.”

“Sure. How much?”

He tells me and the amount is staggering. Shane Miller must be loaded, but Janine said he lives in a dingy basement suite. What does he spend his money on? Collectible action figures and Uber Eats? But I need this information. And I’ve figured out a way to get the money. Before Shane hangs up, I have one last question.

“And you’re sure you’ve got the right person?”

“I’ve got the right household,” he says. “If multiple people live there, I can’t pinpoint who’s been harassing you.”

It’s enough. I hang up and try to get back to sleep. But I won’t. The truth is too close now. And it could change everything.

Early the next morning, I sit with a cup of coffee and my phone. I know what I need to do, but I’m shaky and nervous as hell. As predicted, I barely slept, and my brains feels fuzzy. But I have to find out who is trying to ruin my life, so I can bring my daughter back home. And that means I need money to pay Shane Miller. Swallowing my fear, I place a call to Adrian’s mother.

The request I’m about to make may be presumptuous to the point of delusion. Marion Fogler might shut me down, scold me, even berate me. But I pray she will understand my panic and my plight. And as the mother of her granddaughter, I hope she still considers me family. As the phone rings in my ear, I clear my throat and prepare my pitch.

“Camryn,” she says, her tone cool and superior, but it always is. “This is a surprise.”

“Could we meet for coffee?” I ask, voice tremulous. “I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Come to the house,” she says, and it’s evident that Marion Fogler knows about my public meltdown. She’s ashamed to be seen with me. And who can blame her?

“I’ll be right over.”

Adrian’s parents live in Shaughnessy, a tony residential neighborhood in the center of the city. Most of the homes here are sprawling heritage mansions with well-tended gardens, circular driveways, and guesthouses. The residents of these exorbitantly priced abodes are not wealthy, they’re rich: the multi-home, yacht-vacation, hire-your-son-to-do-nothing type of rich. As I drive through the streets lined with ancient elm and oak trees, it’s quiet to the point of being eerie.

I find Marion seated by her pool with a teapot and two china cups set on a small table. She doesn’t get up, doesn’t hug me, but she points to the chair opposite her, and I sit. “What can I do for you?” she asks, filling the cups with black tea.

There’s no time for charm or small talk. I’m meeting Shane Miller in just over two hours. “I need a loan, Marion. It’s a lot of money, but I promise I’ll pay you back.”

“How much?” She doesn’t flinch when I tell her; it’s nothing to her. She picks up her delicate cup. “And what’s it for?”

I reach for my tea, but the cup rattles when I touch it. I’m trembling with nerves, so I sit back and press on. “I hired a cyber-security expert to identify the person who’s been harassing me online.”

“Adrian told me about that,” she says, after a sip of tea. “But some of my friends at the club think you’ve made it all up. They think it’s an excuse for you to act like an angry toddler because you can’t handle criticism.”

Ouch.

“My masseuse thinks you should be in jail,” she continues. “She says you stalked and attacked an innocent person.”

I’ve humiliated her and she’s angry. But I can’t back down. I need the money. I will beg if I have to.

“I know I made some bad choices.” I ignore her snort of affirmation. “But I’m not a liar, Marion. Someone has been harassing me—online and in real life. I need to find out who so I can make it stop. I need to protect Liza.”

Her delicate cup clinks as she sets it on the matching saucer. “And this cyber hacker knows who’s behind the attacks?”

“He knows the household, yes. I can figure it out from there.”

She sighs and for a moment, I worry she’s going to turn me down flat. But Marion Fogler is a mother and a grandmother. She may be haughty, condescending, and parsimonious with her approval and affection, but she loves her family. “I’ll do this for Liza,” she says, leaning forward in her chair. “Let me get my checkbook.”

At the bank, I slide the check to the teller and ask for fifties and hundreds. If the young man wonders why I need such a large sum of cash, he doesn’t show it. Does he often get customers who are paying white-hat hackers? Drug dealers? Or ransom for their children? It’s not like I need a suitcase to carry the money, but the two thick envelopes weigh heavy in my purse.

I drive to the Commercial Drive coffee shop, arriving about five minutes early. Last time I was here, I barely noticed the décor, but this time I take in the hexagonal subway tiles and dark wood. At the counter, I order a decaf coffee; I’m already jittery, and caffeine might put me over the edge. I’d get a coffee for Shane, too, but I can’t remember what he was drinking last time. And with the sum I’m about to hand over, he can afford his own drink. I sit inside this time, at a small table near the front door. And I wait.

I’m both desperate and terrified to know the identity of my harasser. Speculation is pointless when the truth is moments away, but my mind still runs through the possibilities, the best- and worst-case scenarios. I’m preparing myself, hoping the information won’t be too devastating. But one thought makes me want to get up, to run out of here before Shane Miller arrives. The culprit could be someone I care about.

Even someone I love.