Influenced Eva Robinson (polar express read aloud .TXT) 📖

the larger issues—a giveaway for her book release that may have been illegal, her drug habits, the bizarre nude photo that suggested a nervous breakdown.

Then there were the ridiculous complaints, like when she had incorrectly called her pasta rigatoni but it was actually ditalini.

The commenters worked each other into a frenzy, spurring each other on. They’d developed a sense of community as they watched her every move, picking it all apart. They noted when she gained weight, or when she lost it, and analyzed the meals she posted in her stories. She veered from being too fat to too thin. Dirtiness was a frequent accusation, and they seemed to have a particular revulsion for her feet.

If Rowan read these blogs, it might help to explain the nervous breakdown.

When he looked up, he saw Ciara crossing to him. Her pale skin looked rosy in the setting sun, her hair aflame. She’d been telling him earlier that the Puritans buried their dead facing the east, to face the second coming when it happened. But it was to the west that the real magic happened, where the sun set.

When she reached him, she smiled and snatched up the coffee cup before sitting down next to him.

“How did the interview go?” she asked.

“She wasn’t what I expected.”

“How so?”

“She’s an addict, I think. She was just waking up when I got there. Her apartment was in shambles. She’s using coke. I’d guess a lot of coke.”

“Did she tell you anything useful?”

“She told me she forgets things when she gets drunk. She doesn’t remember last night, which might explain the naked photo she posted, then deleted. She completely denies an affair with Adam. She looked genuinely shocked and offended that I’d suggest it, like he was beneath her. And his name never came up on the blogs.”

“The blogs?”

“Well, it might not mean anything, but she has a legion of… stalkers, sort of. She posts all day, oversharing in her stories, and they watch everything she does. They analyze her pictures, blowing them up to get every detail. They draw bright circles around the piles of clothes on her floor, saying it’s evidence that she’s falling apart, or how long it’s been since she tidied certain parts. They notice when she throws out plastic instead of recycling. They know…” He sipped his coffee, trying to figure out how to express this. “They know what every inch of her skin looks like. If she has any flaws. They know when she changes her clothes or when she’s worn a dress too often. It’s disturbing.”

Ciara’s nose wrinkled. “That sounds deeply unhealthy. Well, we don’t have a pillory anymore, do we? In the old days, she’d be tied to the back of a cart and whipped through the streets as a fornicatrix. We’re supposed to be civilized now, but that impulse doesn’t go away. We need to throw rotten vegetables at someone, and that someone will most likely be glamorous, so we all feel better.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Fornicatrix?”

When she smiled at him, her green eyes lit up. “It was a crime in the old days. But people are still twitching their curtains, obsessing over each other’s little sins. So did any of these commenters mention Arabella?”

“Yes, things like ‘Now that was someone who actually had talent. The wrong person died’ and ‘She was actually much prettier than Rowan.’ There are a few there who are deeply obsessive. In fact, if Rowan turned up dead instead of Arabella, that would be where we’d start looking. It almost made me wonder…”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Maybe someone was jealous of the only person to show up in Rowan’s photos? Maybe one of her stalkers stole the computer, and is waiting for a big reveal.”

“It’s possible. But guess what? I have something more concrete. I got the Find My Mac password from a drawer in her office and was able to track where her Mac had been used.”

“Did someone turn it on after it was stolen?”

She nodded. “Just once. Not in Rowan’s neighborhood, or Adam’s. It was just enough time to look through whatever was on her computer and maybe delete it.”

“Where was it? And when?”

“Somerville. A neighborhood in Porter Square. Friday, May the first, at around six p.m.”

“Anything more specific?”

“It’s narrowed down to one block, but I don’t know beyond that. And at this point, I have no idea who it was in Somerville.”

Twenty-Six

In her little Somerville apartment on the third floor, Hannah was staring at her phone, feeling as if she’d been thrust into a glamorous new life. It had only been two weeks since Stella’s last party, and already Hannah was dressed up for the next one. Apparently there was some good news about the teen center, and they planned to celebrate.

In the past two weeks, she’d been on three dates with Daniel. They’d gone to Walden Pond, just as they’d planned. It had been a glorious day of swimming, walking through the woods, and eating at a small café in Concord. Then they’d spent an evening at the arboretum in Jamaica Plain, picnicking in the sunset.

Last night, Daniel had taken her out for an evening sail in the harbor, and they’d stayed up till midnight talking on one of the harbor islands. It turned out they had plenty in common. They’d both lost their dads to cancer. Both of them wanted to someday live on a canal. And both were fascinated by the 1920s.

Hannah picked up her phone, delighted to find that her Instagram following was growing, and fast. But her mood quickly darkened. Because along with Rowan’s followers came their comments.

I hope you know Rowan is just using you.

That comment was posted beneath an innocuous review of a young adult book about an academy for fairies.

At least they weren’t as brutal as the ones left on Rowan’s own page. Especially since she’d posted the unflattering nude.

I’m just impressed she put down the coke long enough to snap a photo of her minge. Her parents must be so proud.

Anyone