Page 66

Story: The Haters

I HAVE NEVER BEEN in a police interrogation room before, but I pay little attention to my utilitarian surroundings. My head is too full of questions: What the hell happened to Shane Miller? Was it a car accident? A drug overdose? An underlying condition? He was young, he seemed healthy, though his lifestyle was probably quite sedentary. And why do the police want to talk to me about him? After Kash told me the horrifying news, he’d suggested I meet him at the Cambie Street police station.

“You might know something that could help the investigation,” he’d said.

“What investigation? What happened?” But Kash insisted he tell me in person.

Now Kash and I sit at a laminate table facing Inspector Nadia Trigg. The detective is about my age, petite but solid in a blazer and jeans. She’s said nothing to make me think I’m in trouble, but something in her manner makes me feel guilty. Obviously, I’ve done nothing wrong, so I agree to let her record our interview. Her hazel eyes watch me intently as she begins.

“How did you know Shane Miller?”

“I hired him to find out who’s been trolling me and my book,” I tell her. “He called me last night and said he had a name for me. I was supposed to meet him this morning.”

The two cops exchange a look that I can’t read. Kash asks, “Did you find out who’s been harassing you?”

“No.” Kash knows this, but I assume it’s for the record. “Shane never showed up to the meeting. And he still has my laptop.” I shift in my seat as I correct myself. “He had my laptop.”

“Who knew you’d hired Shane Miller?” Trigg asks.

“A few people. I’d have to think…” I clear my throat. “Can you please tell me what happened to him?”

The inspector’s voice is measured. “Shane Miller was killed in a house fire.”

“Oh my god!” It’s worse than anything I’d imagined. “That’s awful. Poor Shane.”

“The fire investigation concluded that it started as a grease fire in the kitchen,” she continues. “But our arson team is looking into it now.”

“You think it was arson?” I gasp. “You think someone set the fire deliberately?”

“Miller’s body was found in his bedroom,” Trigg continues. “It’s possible he left a pan on the burner and went to bed, but that’s more common with the elderly or substance abusers.”

“Are they doing a tox screen on the body?” Kash asks her.

“Of course.” She looks back at me. “But given Miller’s line of work, we can’t rule out homicide.”

My mind spins and my breath comes in shallow, panicky gulps. The inspector thinks Shane Miller was murdered. I feel unmoored and out of my element. My harassment has been scary and unnerving, but this is on another level. But who knows what kind of entanglements a hacker could get into? Clearly this has nothing to do with me. Except…

“In my novel…” I start, but I trail off. The grease fire in Burnt Orchid is nothing more than a coincidence.

“In your novel what?” Kash presses.

I clear my throat. “A young woman sets a grease fire in the kitchen,” I admit. “She pours water on it, and it burns the house down. It’s a murder-for-hire scenario.”

Trigg’s face darkens. “Tell me more about the harassment you got over your book.”

And so, I do. Kash knows most of it, except the word PEDOPHILE painted on my car, and the shampoo sprayed around my bathroom.

“Someone broke into your home, and you didn’t call the police?” Inspector Trigg sounds incredulous.

“There was no forced entry, so I assumed it was someone I knew. Maybe even my daughter.” My tone turns arch. “And I’d already gone to the police. The officer told me there was nothing they could do to help me. She was rude and dismissive.”

Trigg is watching me, her hazel eyes cold. She thinks I’m an idiot. Or does she think I’m a suspect? Suddenly I feel vulnerable. I turn to Kash. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“You’re not in any trouble, Cam.” Kash’s voice is reassuring, but I don’t like the way his eyes dart to Trigg’s. And I don’t like the weight of her gaze on me.

“I’d like to leave.” I’m suddenly desperate to get out of this stifling room, to get away from all these questions. I’m afraid that I’m somehow culpable in Shane Miller’s death, and I’m terrified that Trigg thinks I may have done it. Kash nods and I stand up… but there’s one more thing.

“Shane Miller had my laptop…”

“It was likely destroyed in the fire,” Trigg says, making me feel shallow for asking when a man is dead. “If it wasn’t, it will be evidence.”

“Right.”

Without another word, I hurry out of the station.

As soon as I let myself into the apartment, I can tell I’m not alone. With all that’s going on, I should be unnerved, but the banging of drawers and the soft giggling can only mean one thing: Liza is home. Emotion wells up in my chest. After the tragic news of Shane Miller’s death, her presence is a panacea, a much-needed comfort.

“Liza?” I call, moving into the kitchen.

My words are met with abrupt silence. Dropping my purse and keys on the counter, I walk toward her room, but my daughter emerges and meets me halfway there.

“I thought you weren’t home,” she says. “I just came to get some of my makeup and stuff.”

“Can we talk?” I say gently. “Please?”

“I’ve got a friend here,” she says, motioning toward her bedroom. “We’re going to the beach.”

“I’m sure Sage won’t mind giving us a few minutes alone.”

“I’m not ready, Mom.” I see her chin wobble. “I’m still upset.”

“I understand, Liza, I do. But you’re my baby.” Tears slip from my eyes. “I need you.”

And Liza needs me, too, I know she does. Despite how I’ve humiliated her, this is a pivotal time in her life and her mother’s love and support is requisite. She softens, just a little, and I can sense her receptiveness. I take a tentative step toward her, about to draw her into my arms, when Liza whirls around. Her friend has joined us. But it’s not Sage.

It’s Fiona Carmichael. In my home. With my daughter.

Liza turns back to me, her expression conflicted. “You know Fiona, right?”

Yes, I know Fiona.

“Hi, Ms. Lane.” The girl’s smile is saccharine. “Sorry to interrupt, but everyone’s going to be waiting for us at the beach, Liza.”

“I have to go,” my daughter says.

“No.” It’s my stern mother voice, my school counselor tone. The gravitas of my tenor belies the thudding of my heart, the racing of my pulse.

“Mom…” Liza begins, but I don’t let her finish.

“We need to talk. You can meet your friends later.”

I watch the girls exchange a look, fear fluttering in my belly. I’ve lost all authority in recent weeks. They could turn on me. Fiona could lead my daughter out of here and poison her against me. But Fiona reaches out, touches Liza’s shoulder.

“I’ll walk down to Jericho. Come as soon as you can, ’kay?”

Liza nods and looks at me. My shoulders sag with relief. I’ve won. This battle anyway.

But as Fiona heads to the door, she calls out, “Nice to see you, Ms. Lane.”

And somehow, it sounds like a threat.