“So you don’t have any way of finding out which account sent them?”
“Not unless the account sends them again. I know, I should have kept them. For proof. If I need to go to the police or something.”
“You have nothing?”
“No.”
“What did the comments say, exactly?”
“That I am nothing but the wife of a washed-up ski racer. Another that said they ‘see’ me—as though they’re watching everything I do.”
“You need to go into your settings, Daisy, and disable the comments,” Vanessa says. “And make your account private.”
Daisy’s chest constricts at the idea of cutting off all the love and approval. “It’s not just online. Someone stuck a physical note on my windshield that referenced my Instagram account handle—whoever is doing this is in this city. They knew I would be staging a condo downtown.”
Vanessa stares. “My God,” she whispers. “You need to report this, Daisy. You need to go to the police.”
Daisy inhales deeply, looks away. At all the faces passing the window. Anonymous faces. Could be any one of those faces. She has more than eight thousand followers now, and whoever posted the comments doesn’t even need to be a follower.
“How can I go to the police? Just walk into some station with nothing to show them?”
“You have the note from your car, right?”
I SEE YOU @JUSTDAISYDAILY.
I KNOW WHO YOU ARE . . .
Daisy feels as though she’s going to throw up. She doesn’t want police asking too many questions about what she might have done to incur this.
“Look,” Vanessa says, “there will always be trolls. If you put yourself out there, someone, for whatever reason, is going to have a go. The more followers, the bigger you are, the more someone wants to tear you down, cut you to size. It’s just the human way. And the anonymity of social media makes it possible. It’s like being behind the wheel in a car. People do things in a car they’d never do up close face-to-face. Social media is road rage on steroids.” She scoops up a spoonful of orange soup and delivers it to her mouth. “Have you considered getting rid of the account? Getting off social media altogether, now that you’re having a baby? I mean, a lot of people never post about their kids. On principle. To keep them safe.”
“It shouldn’t have to be like this,” she snaps. “There are tons of profiles out there—mothers-to-be, moms with tots. They discuss pregnancy issues, postpartum stuff, breastfeeding challenges, support groups, baby decor. Gorgeous baby clothes. Family issues. Recipes. Postpartum diet and exercise. Why should motherhood be a threatening, scary, dangerous thing? I refuse—” She realizes with a shock that giving it up is not on the table. Not at all. Not even for a minute. And she’s furious that some asshole out there has forced her into this corner. More quietly, she says, “I refuse to be intimidated. I will not run away.”
Vanessa’s lips curve into a slow smile.
“Seriously, fuck them.” Daisy stabs her spoon into her bowl of chunky harvest soup. Jabbity jabbity jab like Chucky with the knife.
Vanessa’s smile broadens. “There’s a girl. You go, Mom.”
Daisy nods, heart hammering, still uneasy, but firm now.
“Have you told Jon about these comments?”
“No. He doesn’t like me being in cyberspace on principle. He’ll just tell me to kill the account.”
“Men,” says Vanessa.
“Yeah,” says Daisy. She eats her soup, feeling better already. She makes small talk with Vanessa. They laugh about one of the other moms at yoga, talk about a favorite boutique, and critique an amazing new restaurant that opened downtown. Daisy begins to feel as though she just imagined the whole thing.
“How about you?” she asks Vanessa. “How come you don’t have a social media presence?”
“Oh, I did have,” Vanessa says, “but I killed all my profiles about a year ago and went cold turkey.”
“Because you were planning a family?”
Vanessa inhales, sets down her spoon, dabs her mouth carefully with her napkin. In a very measured fashion, she says, “I told you that Haruto works in cybersecurity, right? Well, he got a new contract with a company based out of Singapore. It’s a secretive government thing, and Haruto was concerned that if someone found his wife’s social media profile, it could be used to . . . compromise his work. And it could risk our safety. I don’t know. We just decided it was better.”
Daisy crooks up her brows, suddenly distracted from her own cyber trolls. “Risk your safety? You mean like . . . kidnapping or something?”
Vanessa shrugs.
“So Haruto is, like, in government intelligence, or counterintelligence—is that what he does?”
“Something like that.”
Now Daisy is super interested. “So Haruto wanted you off social media?”
Vanessa’s cheeks heat. She looks embarrassed. This only intrigues Daisy further.
“What exactly does Haruto do?” she asks.
With a wave of her hand, Vanessa says, “I’m sorry, but it’s not something I can really talk about. God, look at my bowl. I’ve eaten everything. Do you want dessert?”
Daisy returns her attention to her bowl and realizes she needs to pee. Like right now. It’s another irritating symptom of her pregnancy. She excuses herself and hurries to the bathroom. When she returns, she sees her phone is no longer hidden beneath the napkin, where she’s sure she left it. It’s on the other side of the table, facedown.
As she reseats herself, she regards Vanessa, then picks up her phone and slips it into her purse.
“The server took the plates,” Vanessa says. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted more.”
That’s probably what happened—the waitress moved my phone.
As Daisy is about to suggest ordering a slice of her favorite pie, a man in a coat appears outside the window. He stops right by their table and peers into the window. Vanessa gasps. Daisy’s gaze shoots to her friend.
“What is it?”
“Haruto,” she whispers. Her cheeks go bright red and she hurriedly digs in her purse, finds her wallet. She slaps a wad of cash on the table. “I didn’t realize what the time was. I—I agreed to meet him down the street after our lunch.” She pushes back her chair, but before she can get to her feet, the door swings open with a blast of chill air, and a sturdy Asian-looking man steps into the bistro. He glowers at Vanessa.
The man is not that tall, but he’s built, and he has a presence that seems to shrink the space around him. It certainly shrivels the gorgeous, streamlined Vanessa, who is suddenly flustered, almost panicky, and definitely no longer streamlined.
The man approaches their table. Vanessa, half-risen to her feet, says, “Haruto. I didn’t expect—”
“Have you lost track of the time again?” British accent. Curt voice. Emotionless face.
“I—I was just on my way. This is my friend Daisy Rittenberg, the one I was telling you about from the Yoga Mom’s yoga class?”
Haruto gives Daisy a dismissive nod, then takes hold of his wife’s arm. It’s not a gentle touch. His grasp is firm, and it forces her fully up from her chair.