The Collective(17)

“Terrible.”

“I know,” he says. “But . . . I guess you didn’t see the news a couple of days ago. . . .”

“I hardly ever read the news.”

“Me neither, but this popped up on my home page. Krakowski was cleaning his gun, and it went off and killed him. He shot himself, Cammy. If that isn’t karma . . .”

“You believe in karma?”

“Maybe.”

“You think that someday Lisette Blanchard will lose her son just like we lost our daughter.”

“Payton Ruley’s mom had to wait ten years for it, but it happened.”

I exhale hard, a strange feeling coming over me. It’s jealousy. I’m jealous of Matt. “You honestly have that kind of faith.”

“You asked me what gets me through each day.” He says it very quietly. “I just told you.”

It isn’t until I hang up with him and I’m downstairs in the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of wine, that I think about that name. Payton Ruley.

On the kitchen table, my laptop is still open to the Vassar professor’s website. I close that screen and click onto Facebook and head straight for the Niobe group.

I scroll down past three or four new posts, then my own from last night, down further and further until I find the one I’m looking for—one of the much earlier posts I’d read when I first found the group. My son was wearing his varsity jacket. He was carrying his gym bag. He cut through that neighborhood coming home from a game. . . .

The date on it is June 3—more than six months ago. I stare at the poster’s name for what feels like a full minute: Rachel Ruley.

“Karma,” I whisper. I google Gerard Krakowski, read up on the details of his death. Then I start to compose a private message.


Camille Gardener: Hi, Rachel, I am a fellow member of the Niobe Group and recognized your son’s name in the news. I know we’re not official Facebook friends and I imagine you’re getting barraged by private messages from reporters, but I hope this finds its way to you anyway. I really wanted to reach out and say that, as un-PC as this may sound, I’m glad Krakowski is dead. Personally, I hate it when people tell me I should forgive my daughter’s murderer, that forgiving him and his parents will stop the flow of hate in my veins and give me some closure. There is no closure for me. I will never stop hating him. And I hope I’m not presumptuous in thinking we might feel the same. We were robbed of our children. How can we be asked to stop hating those responsible???

That said, it gave me a lot of satisfaction to see the man who murdered your son get exactly what he deserves. EXACTLY. Before I joined the group, I had stopped telling people what I really want for my daughter’s murderer, because it seemed like whenever I did, people would respond with, “Two wrongs don’t make a right.” What they don’t seem to understand is that his death wouldn’t be a wrong. It would be karma, if you believe in that crap. I don’t. I prefer to call it justice.

I’d love to talk with you more about this if you’re so inclined. If not, I understand. Just know that I’m on your side.



I read over the message twice—once for grammar and typos, once for “Do I have any right to say these things to a stranger?” And then, without thinking too long about it, I hold my breath and tap send. It feels like pulling a trigger, and after I do, I stare at the screen, my heart pounding when the little check appears in the chat window: Rachel Ruley has read the message.

Then come the pulsing ellipses at the bottom of the window. I watch and wait. . . .

The ellipses stop. Start again. Stop.

“What are you typing?” I whisper. But no words appear. The ellipses stop.

It’s six thirty, so I put a frozen meal in the microwave. I eat it slowly and in silence, thinking about Rachel Ruley, how it must have felt to read the news stories. Her son’s murderer, dead by his own murderous hand.

Once I’m done eating and I’ve washed the dishes, I open my laptop again, head back to Facebook, and open the message. There is still no reply from Rachel Ruley. She has nothing to say to me, and that’s fine.

I go back to my design files—the Vassar professor’s website, the specs I recently sent to Glynne. After I finish all the updates, I upload them and go to my website email and send them to my client. Once I’m done, though, I notice that my website has received two new emails: one from Glynne titled These look great!

They’d better. They’re free. When I open it up, though, she says she has “just a few thoughts” and suggests meeting for coffee tomorrow morning to discuss them. I debate asking her if she’s paying for the coffee at least, but instead I just type, Sure, adding an exclamation point to show how truly accommodating I am.

The second email is from what looks like a meaningless series of numbers. Spam, I think. But then I notice the subject line: Justice.

Coincidental spam? I open it anyway. How can I not?

The message contains one word, and then a link to a site: a random-looking series of numbers followed not by .com or .net but by .onion.

I try clicking on it, but nothing happens. I copy it onto my search bar, but all I get is the blank screen and the note about being unable to access the site. I’m feeling a little panicky, as though I’ve been treading water for hours, and this strange numbered site is an island—a mysterious, looming thing that could save my life if I just find my way there. I pick up my phone, go to my recent calls, and click on Matt’s number. It rings just once, and then he answers. “You again.” He says it gently.