The most recent post is an article: “Police Question Local Woman in Neighbor’s Violent Death.”
I scan it quickly to see if my name shows up, but it doesn’t. The story is vague, with phrases such as police are questioning and person of interest.
But where the story left things nebulous, the comments are viciously specific. I find one written by Vicki, the PTA capo.
This is that woman who lives on Wentworth, Alexis Ross. I know for a fact she was having an affair with Rob Avery.
I look up at Daisy and Leah, who are watching me with concern. “What is wrong with this woman Vicki? It’s like she has some kind of agenda against me. She’s spreading lies. That can’t be legal.”
I scroll down through the comments, losing count at thirty-five, before turning the computer back to Daisy. “I can’t read any more.”
“They fall into roughly two camps,” Daisy says. “People scared that a murderer is on the loose in our neighborhood, and others who, you know, want to take a wait-and-see approach.” She taps on the keyboards and clucks her tongue. “While I get you were trying to clear your name, I don’t think posting the account of what Rob did to you Saturday night was the best idea. Just added fuel to the fire.”
“I didn’t post anything, Daisy.” I turn to Leah. “Didn’t you tell her? Someone made a fake Facebook account and posted that.”
Daisy’s eyes widen. “Oh. My. God. What a nightmare. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “What can I do?”
“For starters, we can contact Jeff Crosetti, who moderates this page,” Leah says over her shoulder as she stirs something sweet-smelling on the stove. She carries the pot over to the counter and drizzles the steaming liquid into a bowl of chopped nuts, dripping on the counter as she goes. “He’s the only one who can take down posts.”
“So this is not your Facebook page?” Daisy flips the laptop toward me so I can see the screen—a Facebook page with my name on it and that shot of me in a bikini. The same person who created the fake Tinder account must have made this as well.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Because I friended you. I mean, I friended this page, like a month ago.”
I scroll quickly, making myself dizzy trying to read everything that I supposedly posted on “my” Facebook page. Most feature memes about drinking wine and the annoyances of motherhood, which are cringeworthy enough. But then there are the personal ones. My throat tightens at one that reads: Tell me why I decided to have children again?
Tears spring to my eyes.
“Oh, sweetie.” Daisy hands me a tissue.
I shake my head, refusing it. “No, I’m fine.”
Daisy pushes it into my hand. “It’s okay to cry. This is totally fucked up.”
Something about her permission undams a torrent of emotion that I’ve had bottled up for days. Before I know it, hot tears are falling from my eyes, and my shoulders are shaking uncontrollably. “I never wrote any of this,” I say, wiping my runny nose. “Did you really think this was me?”
“I don’t know.” Daisy looks pained. “I guess I did. I didn’t really know you that well.”
My whole chest constricts, making each breath laborious. The effort that went into making this page reflects such a deep hatred of me. It’s as if I can feel that venom radiating off the screen and infecting me.
But who hates me this much? And why? All these posters have to know they’re crossing a line from petty gossip to implicating me in a murder.
Is that the goal?
“I figured you were going through a tough time,” Daisy says.
Leah nods. “We’ve all been there. Overwhelmed.”
I scroll down to a post where, printed in block letters, are the words: Men, coffee, and chocolate—all better rich. Below that another one reads: Marriage is a workshop—the man works and the wife shops.
The overall portrait of me is revolting. What must people in the neighborhood think of me? I click on the Friends link. I have more than three hundred, name after name that I do not recognize. As I scroll down, a few familiar names jump out at me. Photography clients, Mike Chau, neighbors.
Vicki.
Heather.
My face burns. My boss has seen this. No, just because he’s friended me on Facebook doesn’t mean he’s read all these posts, but he might have.
I navigate back to the main page and let out a little cry. A new post has just popped up. Had I missed it before? No. It’s shown up in the last minute.
My tormentor is posting in real time.
Two pictures, side by side. The first is the photo from the party, the one where Rob’s head and mine are so close they almost touch, that damn skirt riding up my thighs.
But it’s the second photo that takes my breath away. I haven’t seen it in sixteen years. I took it myself.
In it, I am lying naked, curled against the sleeping body of a man. The photo is cropped precisely—only the bottom half of his face is visible, and just the tops of my breasts can be seen. But I don’t need to see the whole photo to remember his dark eyelashes, the way his lips parted slightly as he slept. The way I thrust my naked breasts at the camera, a caricature of a young seductress.
I look at my younger self—sucking on one finger and staring intently into the camera, trying so hard to be sexy.
Below the two photos, the caption reads: Have I still got it? Please vote!
Eighteen people have voted so far.
Then Nineteen.
Then Twenty.
I watch the number grow before my eyes, and each addition feels like a hot fist clenching my gut tighter.
This is the second time this naked photo of me has been posted online.
