The Collective(20)

“Yes. Why?”

“You seem like you drifted a little. Am I giving you too many notes?”

I nearly tell her about Kaya—not because I think she’d understand, but because I’d like her to know that there are many others out there who do. But I can’t. I know that. The woman in charge of the chat, the administrator of the site, I assume, goes by the screen name 0001. She contributes very little, but last night she did admonish one member (1219, which happens to be my birthday) who said she wanted to tell her husband about us. To be a member of this group is to take an oath of secrecy, 0001 warned. If you tell a soul, Kaya will dissolve. It will lose its magic. Telling one non-member ruins everything for us all.

It will lose its magic. As though we are witches, casting spells on our enemies.

Glynne says, “Camille?”

“No, sorry. I’m fine with your notes.” I say it because I feel like I need to keep up appearances. But what I really want to do is cackle.

“Okay. Well, listen. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

“And I . . .”

“Yeah?”

She clears her throat. “Full disclosure.” She tucks a shiny lock of hair behind her ear, revealing a glittering earring—some sort of Creamsicle-colored stone that brings out her lipstick. “I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I’ve known Dean Waverly for years.”

In my mind, I grab hold of the earring and rip.

“He commissioned me to paint a piece for the Brayburn Faculty Club. This was . . . Well, it was probably a year or so before what happened to your daughter.”

“Oh.”

“When we first spoke about the website, I honestly didn’t know that Emily Gardener was . . .”

“It’s a common last name.”

“Yes, well . . . I just wanted to tell you.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. I want to shake it away. “He really did feel awful about what happened. Rick has never approved of fraternity culture.”

I swallow hard, a million words running through my head. “Good for him.” It’s the nicest set of words I’m able to string together.

She gives me a warm smile, as though we’ve made some kind of real connection. We haven’t. I know Waverly is “against fraternity culture.” After Emily’s death, Harris Blanchard’s fraternity lost its charter, and the school put such strict rules into effect regarding underage drinking at frat parties that rush became a nonevent, and enrollment in the Greek system slowed to a trickle. I know all that. I don’t care. I don’t blame fraternity culture for Emily’s death. I don’t blame parties or alcohol or the detrimental influence of social media and online porn on Today’s Youth. I blame her murderer. Period.

Glynne winds her hand around my back—an invitation for a hug. I don’t accept it. People do and say and think whatever they can, just so they can believe they’re good. It isn’t my job to back them up. “Thank you,” I tell her, “for the notes.”

As I take her printouts and head out of the café, I’m counting the minutes until I can go to A?layan Kaya again.


IT’S A TWO-MINUTE drive to my house, another ten to load more wood into the stove, brew a pot of coffee, turn on my computer, and enter the dark web. As I take all these steps, my breathing is steady, deep, and focused, much the way it was when I used to run every day, each breath propelling me forward along with the music in my headphones, drawing me closer to my destination.

Until, at last, I’m there.

Once I’ve clicked on the Kaya chat, I type without thinking or censoring or reading anything anyone else has written. It feels like jumping out of a window, all the while knowing there’s a safety net below.


0417: I want him dead. For real. I don’t care how.



Ellipses percolate beneath my comment. I stare at them, waiting for words to appear. And it isn’t long before they do.


2201: I think you were too kind last night, simply beating him up before he gets tied to the tree. I think he could use a knife through the eyeball.

1225: Or try a cut to the carotid, in front of a mirror. Make it shallow so he can see it happen. Then chop off his head.

0104: He raped your daughter, right? Chopping off his dick seems more appropriate.



The comments keep coming, the suggestions grislier and grislier. But while I appreciate the support, the lack of judgment, the complete absence of the words forgive and move on, I know, on some level, that it’s still nothing more than a group fantasy. At this very moment, Harris Blanchard is happily brunching with his parents in New York City or enjoying the company of his fellow seniors or hiking or skiing and posting pictures on Instagram, his grinning face behind a pair of enormous goggles as he enjoys these final weeks of winter break. My daughter—the lack of her—is the last thing on his mind.

I want him dead. For real.

This morning I woke up after just two hours of sleep and showered and dressed for my meeting with Glynne an hour and a half early. I used the extra time to drive across the river to the Brayburn campus. It was the first time I’d been there since the trial, but after talking all night on Kaya about what Harris Blanchard did to my daughter, I wanted to make sure I wasn’t remembering things wrong.

I wasn’t. The woods where Emily’s body was found are a six-minute drive from the frat house—a fifteen-minute walk at the very least. That means he went out of his way to take her there, far away from the party, where no one could hear her scream.