“You don’t have to call back,” Matt says. “Just . . . take care of yourself, Cammy.”
I delete the message.
I wish I hadn’t done that. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t think I’d ever be able to listen to it again anyway.
I lift my laptop bag from the chair and lug it upstairs to my bedroom, set it on my desk, open up the Tor server, navigate my way back to Kaya, and start a new private chat with 0001.
0417: I’m troubled by a few things.
The line disappears, and she answers immediately. It makes me wonder what her life is like, what she is like—always in front of her computer, all-knowing. Always ready.
0001: What are you troubled by?
0417: The knife. The girl going to the police.
0001: Why do those things trouble you? They’re exactly what you wanted.
I start to type, No, I didn’t want those things. I only wanted him gone. But before I can finish, 0001 has re-sent me the screenshot from weeks ago.
0417: I don’t just want him killed off. I want his soul destroyed, his memory ripped to shreds, just like he and his family and their lawyers did to my daughter. After he’s dead, I want the whole world to see him for what he truly was. I want his parents to have to live for the rest of their lives knowing what a mistake it was to bring him into the world.
“What he truly was,” I whisper.
0001: Ask of the collective, and you shall receive.
I stare at the screen, that smiley-face emoji, then watch it all fade to white.
She’s right. She’s absolutely right. So why am I not celebrating? I can’t put it into words because they are words I don’t want to think about.
0417: You’re right. I am very grateful.
0001 is typing . . .
I watch the screen, the ellipses disappearing, then appearing again until a reply finally appears.
0001: You’re not being honest.
“Because I don’t know how.”
0001 is typing . . .
0001: I’m going to tell you what you’re REALLY thinking.
“Fine.”
0417: Fine.
0001 is typing . . .
0001: You feel guilty. Not because of what happened to Harris Blanchard but because you’re now doubting yourself for wanting it to happen. You’re questioning everything you’ve said, everything you’ve thought all these years. What if the sex was consensual? What if he really did lose her to some shaggy stranger and she lied to you in her dying breath in order to spare your feelings? What if they were just two stupid kids and now they’ve both lost their lives and their legacies because of their parents’ misconceptions about them? Am I correct?
I feel like I’ve been kicked in the gut. And when the words fade, it’s as though they’ve seeped into my skin and become part of me. “No.” I say it to the screen.
0417: Yes.
0001: That’s weak.
0417: I know.
0001: And you’re feeling sorry for his parents, which is even weaker. Do you think that family worried about whether or not they were telling the truth when they gave that interview to Rolling Stone?
I say it first. Then I remember she can’t hear me, that we’re not in the same room.
0417: No. They lied about her to save themselves.
0001: And they’ve continued lying to themselves, all these years. They’ve told themselves pretty lies about their “perfect” son and they’ve been thoroughly, shamelessly happy. Your instincts were correct. We gave him—we gave THEM—exactly what they deserved: the truth.