My jaw drops, my eyes salty from not blinking. A collective of wronged mothers. Each one contributing to the murders of our tormentors . . . This can’t be real. I don’t think it’s real.
0417: Is this some type of game?
The question disappears, and I instantly regret typing it. I want to find out more, but instead I’ve shut her down. The screen is still. No ellipses. I try again.
0417: I want to be part of the collective.
0001 starts typing again. I let out a sigh of relief.
0001: Can we trust you?
0417: Yes.
0001: Do you swear on your daughter’s memory that you will never betray us?
The sentence disappears. My jaw tightens. I’ve never sworn on Emily’s memory before. Emily’s memory is all I have. I wait for more ellipses, but the screen stays still.
There’s an antique grandfather clock in the hallway outside my bedroom. Matt and I bought it eighteen years ago at an estate sale in Accord—our first purchase for this house—and while I continue to wind it regularly, it’s been a long time since I acknowledged its existence beyond an occasional cursory dusting. But now, suspended in that moment between a question asked and a question answered, its ticking echoes, as though each second were outlined in black. It continues until I can’t take it anymore—the awful loneliness of an inactive screen.
0417: Yes. I swear.
The reply appears nearly as fast as mine fades.
0001: Message me the first and last name of your daughter’s killer. I will then give you an assignment. Do not question what you are asked to do—just do it. Like every assignment, it is part of a whole. Upon successful completion, you will be in the collective. Is that clear?
0417: Yes.
0001: If I do not hear the name from you within twenty-four hours, the invitation will be revoked. You will never be offered another. If you repeat any of this conversation to anyone, there will be severe consequences. Do you understand?
0417: Yes.
I gaze at the blank box on my screen. If the collective is some type of game—and I can’t help but believe it is—I’m not sure what “severe consequences” means. It must be like the warning signs posted in front of roller coasters, or the disclaimers they used to run before slasher movies. May cause seizures. Do not watch this if you suffer from hypertension or anxiety.
In order to buy into any thrill ride, you must feel as though you’re risking something big to be there. And it’s worked. I’ve bought in. Wherever this assignment is going to take me, it’s already proven more effective than any traditional therapy I’ve ever had—even Joan. Even Joan. I scoot back in my chair and hug my knees to my chest, my heart pounding against them, cheeks flushing, eyes shut. Alive. That’s what I feel, for the first time in so long.
The good thing about living alone is, you can say things out loud without worrying about how crazy they sound. “All strapped in.” I say it loudly, proudly. “Let’s get this ride started.”
I type out Harris Blanchard’s name. Send it to 0001. And wait.
Seven
It’s been more than twenty-four hours since I sent Harris Blanchard’s name to 0001. Outside of showering, I’ve spent every waking moment on the Kaya chat, reading stories and commenting, commenting, commenting . . . joining in this Greek chorus of grieving women, inventing fitting deaths for the thoughtless drivers and pill-addicted doctors and senseless, shameless, worthless murderers who have stolen our children without paying for it, putting all my thoughts and energy and strength into this thread, to the point where it feels as though we truly are one all-powerful entity, a great machine, as 0001 had put it, capable of killing with the combined force of our words.
But I still have not received an assignment.