I slip on some shoes and hustle down the two floors to the front door, silently wishing we had a fancy intercom system so I could buzz people in from upstairs. I peer through the peephole to get a closer look at the woman and pull back with a gasp as I notice the belt around her waist, the black pistol hanging from it.
She’s a police officer. We’d made a statement at the station near campus yesterday right after I got off the phone, but I didn’t expect someone to actually show up.
The woman’s black hair bounces a little with every movement she makes, and she looks a lot like Misty Knight from the comics and the Luke Cage Netflix show—minus the kick-ass robotic arm—which makes me smile and feel way more at ease about her being here. She knocks on the door again, hard, making me step back a bit.
“Hello?” she calls, her voice authoritative. I hear her grumble something else under her breath.
I open the front door a crack, peering at her from behind the fraying screen door.
“Can I help you?” I ask. She squints at me for a moment.
“I’m Detective Nikki Watts,” she says, pulling a badge out from inside her jacket. “I’m looking for Divya Sharma—is she here?” She stares at me, as though she’s trying to figure out if I’m the person she’s looking for.
“That’s, um...me,” I stammer.
“I got the report from the station about the assault at...” She closes her eyes, like it hurts to say the name of the place. “Quarter Slice Crisis.”
“Yeah.” I swallow nervously. “We filed that report yesterday. Is everything okay?”
“Save for the exception that I hate puns? Yes. I understand you’re friends with Rebekah...” She pulls a notebook out and flips it open quickly, then looks back up at me, her dark brown eyes strangely warm and piercing at the same time. “Rebekah Cole? You do that video game stream together, yes?”
“Oh God, did something happen to her?” I ask, anxiety billowing up in my chest.
“Well, yes and no. I mean, she’s fine, your friend is fine,” she adds hastily, likely in response to the panicked expression I’m sure is on my face. “Is there somewhere we can sit down and talk about what happened at Quarter...” She shakes her head. “You know what, I’m not even going to say the name of that place. It’s so ridiculous. The bad pizza place in Hoboken with the old games. I’m the officer investigating the incident.”
A little smile escapes her lips.
“D-1-V,” she says, enunciating the letter, number, letter. “My niece really likes your videos, you know.”
“No way.” I grin. “That’s really cool.”
“Maybe we can take a selfie after we talk?” she ventures. “Mind if I come in?”
* * *
“We’re investigating the online harassment that’s plaguing a lot of girls in the region,” Detective Watts says as I make my way into my kitchen to fetch some water for both of us. I grab a glass, fumbling with it a bit, my nerves jostling about inside me. How does she know my gamer tag? “There’s been a serious uptick around the area, at least what’s being reported, and we think it’s organized. Particularly where you and your friend were yesterday, in Hoboken, and here in Jersey City.”
“Hoboken. Do you think it’s coming from one of the colleges?” I ask from the kitchen, my voice echoing off the tiles. The idea that some of the harassers might go to the same school as Rebekah is enough to send my heart hammering even more. It’s bad enough those guys from the elevator are still floating around campus someplace, without a care in the world.
“Maybe,” Detective Watts says as I return to the living room and hand her a glass of water. She moves to sit down on the couch, and consequently sinks into it way too quickly, some of the water splashing onto her jacket.
“Uh, sorry about that,” I say, setting down my own glass on a side table and running to grab some paper towels. She mumbles her thanks and dabs at the water spots while I grab the desk chair from my bedroom and wheel it in, feeling weird about the idea of sitting right next to her on the sofa.
I spin the chair around to face her and sit down. “We really need to replace that couch.”
Detective Watts looks like she’s about to disappear into the pillows. “It’s um...cozy.” She smiles awkwardly and leans forward. She’s weirdly positioned, far down and sunken into the couch, while I’m up high on my desk chair. I fuss with the lever underneath my seat to lower myself a bit, but it doesn’t help much.
“I have to be honest here,” I say, giving up and crossing my arms. “Why are you investigating this? I’ve always been under the impression that this sort of stuff... Well, that no one cared. It’s just the Internet or whatever. Which, obviously, I don’t believe, but...that seems to be the general consensus.”
Not to mention this is the second damn time Rebekah’s been harassed in person, and the outcome of the first time was that she had to move in order to feel even somewhat safe again.
“Yeah.” Detective Watts sounds exhausted as she rubs the bridge of her nose. “I know. I’m trying to change that in a big way. We’re putting together a new task force with the state police and the colleges in the area—Hoboken, Jersey City, Newark, Union, and all. Trying to loop in New Brunswick. Online harassment is actual harassment. Don’t let anyone, any article or blog or nonsense anonymous person on the Internet, tell you otherwise.” She stares at me intensely. “Okay?”
I nod. I believe her, of course. But does anyone else? It doesn’t feel like it, especially when trolls so often go unpunished.
“So, Divya, why don’t you let me start, and you can help me fill in some of the blanks here.” She fusses with her notebook again. It’s one of those fancy Moleskine notebooks everyone seems to have but never actually uses. By contrast, hers looks worn-out, like it’s really seen some things.
“It’s my understanding that you and Rebekah have been dealing with some pretty intense harassment—on social media, in emails and video games,” she says. “Just have to search your username to see that these people seem to love posting this stuff afterward. It also seems like some of that harassment might be happening locally. Is this true?”
That email. That photo of my apartment.
I bite my lip and shrug. If I tell her, it might just make things even more complicated for me. I can’t let my mom find out—she’ll make me stop streaming for sure. And besides, Rebekah was the target yesterday, not me.
“I’m not sure,” I venture. “Maybe? The guys at that pizza place definitely knew who I was, and they got that video into the hands of someone who knew where to send it. Though I suppose you can just send something like that to any blog that’s talked badly about me. About us.”