Me.
Miranda had sharpened Sam and pointed him at me like a spear, and I thank God that he’d had enough of his soul left to recognize that he’d been used. And that I was innocent.
But Miranda hated me to her last breath, and she blamed Sam for turning on her and protecting me. I wasn’t there when she was killed, but Sam was. The official verdict was that he didn’t have a thing to do with it . . . but that wasn’t about to satisfy the conspiracy-hungry anger addicts on the Lost Angels website.
They’re coming for Sam. That horrifies me, because he thinks he’s ready for it. He’s seen what happened to me, to my kids . . . but observing isn’t the same as experiencing, and he’s about to get drowned in a storm of shit. Worse, a podcast like that could make him a pariah in his own right; it could ruin him professionally as well as personally. He wants to fly again, but the first thing potential employers do these days is conduct a Google search. Sam’s name is about to become notorious.
I reach out and take his hands, and he looks up and meets my gaze. He manages a quirk of a smile. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t see this one coming. I guess it’s nice they sent me a warning before they get the knives out.” I don’t think it is. I think they wanted him to start dreading it. It’s psychological torture, and the Lost Angels have a lot of experience in that. I don’t want to hate them; most of them are the family members of my ex-husband’s victims who are genuinely grief-stricken—and probably normally good—people. But on that message board, on that website, they unite in one dark purposes: to make me pay. And now Sam, because Sam left them to side with me.
So I take a deep breath and plunge in. “Okay. So, here’s what’s going to happen,” I tell him. “Once the podcast drops, they’ll start getting momentum in a week or two as word spreads. You need to shut down your email account right now and make a new anonymous one; don’t use it for anyone except people you trust. Make another one you’ll put other places where you have to enter an email address, but keep it completely firewalled off. Don’t do anything without logging into VPN first. Ditch your phone and get a new one. And call the people you trust and tell them what’s going to happen, so they’re on guard for any social engineering by trolls who want to get your new phone or email. Our real vulnerabilities come from people thinking they’re doing something harmless.”
“You’ve put thought into this,” he says.
“I expected it,” I admit. “The Lost Angels were never going to let you go without punishment. Look, the moment you decided to stay with us, you became a target too; I’m actually surprised it took this long. But they’re coming at you now, and it will not be pleasant. They’re going to say terrible things about you. Me. Maybe about the kids. Anything to spur a comeback from you.” I hold his stare. He’s starting to understand. “They’ll smear your reputation and find people who’ll swear to all of it; you’ve made enemies in your life, and they’ll come crawling out of the woodwork like cockroaches when the lights go out.”
I feel his hands tighten on mine.
“Sam, I’m sorry. They’re going to take their shot, and it’s going to hurt; you know these people. You trusted them. That’ll make it personal. Likely other message boards and podcasters will jump on the bandwagon and keep driving it hard. And we can only hope it doesn’t go viral, and keep our heads down until the storm moves on. Okay?”
He lets out a slow breath and blinks. “Okay,” he says. It isn’t. “Sorry. I know there’s a lot of bullshit right now, and you didn’t need this too.”
“But I need you,” I say, and I mean it. “Sam. You hear me? I need you.”
He just nods. I come and sit next to him and fold him into an embrace. I wish I could stop it. I’d hoped that once Miranda was gone, the Lost Angels would lose some steam. But someone’s pushing them onward—probably out of a very sincere belief that Sam killed Miranda and got away with it. It’s an ominous sign that behind the scenes, some new leader has taken charge.
They’re smart to change targets. It’ll throw us all off.
Especially Sam.
“I’ll get on that stuff you mentioned,” Sam says, and I can actually feel the effort he makes to shift to another topic. “So, no answer from Remy’s dad yet?”
“No.”
“Maybe he’s working late. Maybe he hasn’t been home to pick up the message. Hell, maybe he’s on vacation in the Bahamas.” Sam’s really trying to put his problems behind him and focus on mine. I don’t know if that’s entirely healthy.
“That’d be just my luck,” I agree. “But I would think—”
My phone rings. I exchange a look with Sam, eyebrows raised, and pick it up. It’s a Louisiana number, all right. But not the one I called earlier. Cell phone, maybe.
I hit the button to accept the call. “Gwen Proctor,” I say. There’s a brief silence.
“You should go on home,” a voice says on the other end. It sounds drunk.
“Mr. Landry?”
“You should go on home and tell whoever’s stirring all this up to let it go.” Definitely drunk, slurring words. “Got nothing to tell you, cher. Nothing you can do for my boy now. He’s long gone. Sorry for your trouble.” I was right about Mr. Landry’s Cajun roots. The music of it weaves through his words, however intoxicated he might be.
“Mr. Landry, why don’t we talk about this in the morning—”
“No,” he says. His breathing’s ragged. I think he’s crying. “I can’t. Can’t do it. No.”
He hangs up. I frown at the phone, not so much disturbed as thinking.
“Doesn’t want to talk, I assume,” Sam says. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll drop in at his office tomorrow,” I say. “He runs a car place, so that’s my best option. Less chance of some kind of scene. If I don’t get much from him, I’ll check with Remy’s friends in the area. I have a list from his social media.”
Sam nods. “Okay. Sounds like a plan. Do you need me along, or—”
“I always need you, didn’t I just say that?” I nudge him. “Always. Let’s talk about plans later. It’s late.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, and turns his head to look at me. His smile is so warm, his eyes even better. “And you’re tired.”
“Not that tired,” I say, and kiss him, and then we’re falling back to the bed, and we both spontaneously laugh because this bed is hard as a damn rock, but then that doesn’t matter anymore, and I’m able to forget the specter of the Lost Angels coming for us, and the dark, ugly hatred still arriving in my email, second by second, drip by drip until it floods over onto us.
Trouble’s coming.
But the only cure for that is surviving it.
Morning comes early, but it comes with coffee and a decent breakfast. Lanny wants to go with me on my visit; she wants to be my assistant, but I’m not making that mistake again. Sam promises the kids that they’ll do something fun while I’m interviewing Remy’s dad. Neither of my children look convinced, but at least they cooperate. For now.