0001: Instead of punishing you, I made it so that your misstep worked in our favor.
“How do you know I followed him?!” I shout it at the screen. A new message appears.
0001: That’s how this collective works. We gain strength from our weaknesses. Unless they are the type of weakness that cannot be forgiven.
“Are you watching me?”
0001 is typing . . .
0001: I value you as a member of the collective. So I share more with you than I should. I can’t think of anyone else I would have told about Shawger. But I told you—in order to assure you that you can put your faith in us. And now it seems I have to do it again.
Ellipses pulse on my screen. I sit perfectly still, waiting. She knows I followed Duval. Does she know I met with Violet Langford? Does she know how much information Wendy and I exchanged? Does she have me bugged? Chipped? Has she installed cameras in my house? It makes me want to close the laptop, get rid of the Tor server, slam the door on the collective entirely. But how could I do that? I’ve drowned a man. Played a part in the deaths of three more that I know of and still more that I don’t. I am invested.
0001: I know about Claire Duval. I am sorry for her parents’ loss. But experiencing personal tragedy doesn’t exempt you if you’ve caused someone else’s and have gone unpunished by the system.
I take a deep breath, count to ten. . . .
0417: I researched Edward Duval. I can’t find one instance of malpractice.
0001: MEDICAL malpractice.
0417: ?
0001: Go to the main chat. Search for 1225.
I close my private messages, go to the main chat page, and type “1225” into the search box. It takes me a while to find what 0001 is talking about because, as it turns out, 1225 posts on this page a lot, empathizing with the mothers as they tell their stories in particularly graphic, visceral ways. She did it with me when I told mine . . . 1225: Or try a cut to the carotid, in front of a mirror. Make it shallow so he can see it happen. Then chop off his head.
Of the many angry women on this page—and I am one of them—1225 stands out. We are all full of rage, yes. But she seems consumed by it.
I scroll back several months before I finally find the post where 1225 tells her own story. Like the rest of us, she doesn’t mention names or a specific time frame. But she’s very clear about what happened. Her eight-year-old son was bullied to death—chased to the edge of a cliff by a group of older boys, who scattered and ran when he fell over the edge. It was deemed an accident, with none of the boys even standing trial, let alone going to jail. But most all of them apologized. Most all of them.
I open a new private chat and message 0001.
0417: Edward Duval was the ringleader. The one who didn’t apologize.
0001: Yes.
0417: This had to be at least forty years ago. How can you be sure you found the right man?
0001: We always do. No matter how long it takes.
0417: Why did you kill Natalie?
0001: We didn’t.
0417: I don’t believe you.
0001: Believe what you want.
I feel exhausted. Drained. She makes sense. She always does. But why should I believe someone who has been watching me without my knowledge?
0001: After his wife’s death, he took one day off. But other than that, Edward Duval was a creature of habit. He arrived home from work at the same time every day. And every Saturday at 7:30 p.m., he would drive from his home to Tarry Ridge, and spend between half an hour and forty-five minutes at his daughter’s grave. We learned this by watching him for close to a month. You were part of this. YOU are part of US.