The Collective(49)

Xenia says, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“Believe me, I know how you feel.”

No, Xenia, you don’t. It’s as though I’ve been trapped in a dark cell for five years, and now I’m finally out—but it’s because the floorboards have given way beneath me.

Maybe the collective didn’t kill him. Maybe it’s just a bizarre coincidence.

What a ridiculous thought. When the man who killed Rachel Ruley’s son accidentally shot himself, was that a bizarre coincidence? How about when Ashley Shawger blew himself up on the thirtieth anniversary of his victim’s death? And when Gary Kimball is finally found dead in the trunk of his own rapemobile, will that be a bizarre coincidence too?

I hear myself say, “It’s very sad.”

Her eyes narrow. “It is? Really? I mean, after everything you’ve been through . . .”

“I wouldn’t wish it on any mother. Including Harris Blanchard’s.” It feels true. It’s what I feel. I grit my teeth. Stop it, stop it, stop it.

Xenia reaches across the table, places a cool hand on mine. “You’re a very good person, Camille.”

My cheeks heat up. “I don’t know about that.”

I open my laptop, Xenia’s website folder filling the screen, the private conversation with 0001 long gone. I open one of the layouts—the purply ethereal one—and turn the laptop so that she can see it. “I’m a very good designer, though.”


LUKE CALLS ME on the way home from Analog, and I don’t need to ask why. I accept the call over the Bluetooth. “News travels fast,” I tell him.

“So does karma.”

I smile a little. “Yes.”

“Listen, Cam. I just wanted to let you know that when I told you to let it go, that was for you, not Blanchard.”

I take a breath. “I know that.”

“You don’t have to forgive him, okay? You never had to forgive him.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And now that he’s dead, you have every right to feel the way you do.”

My stomach tightens. “Can I call you back in a little bit?”

I hang up before he can answer. I feel nauseous, my head swimmy. When I reach the stoplight, I open the driver’s-side window all the way and lean out of it, taking gulps of cold air. A car passes me across the road, and I can feel the driver staring at me. I’m okay, I tell myself over and over, until I’m steadier and my head clears and I can close the window again. I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.

“I’m okay,” I whisper. The light changes, and I ease my foot off the brake. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

As I’m passing the Mount Shady Library, 0001’s message flashes through my mind. It feels good, doesn’t it? She’d obviously assumed that by “news,” I’d meant Blanchard’s death, not Kimball’s. But if I were to answer her question truthfully . . .

Maybe it’s that I didn’t get to see Harris Blanchard die or that I heard about it secondhand or maybe I’m still in shock. But I don’t think it’s that simple. I think the reason why I feel the way I do is that when it all comes down to it, yes, Harris Blanchard was a terrible human being. But he was also a kid like Emily was, with a mother and a father. And his death hasn’t changed my life for the better. It hasn’t made Emily any more alive.

I turn up the road that leads to my house, a steep uphill drive. My ears click. I drive in silence, trying to think about nothing, but I can’t stop picturing Lisette and Tom Blanchard hearing the news that their son has died, collapsing onto each other the way Matt and I did when we heard about Emily, our bones giving way. They’re like me now, the Blanchards. They’re like all of us in the collective. They are parents whose son was taken from them. They have nothing.

When I reach my driveway and pull in, I call Luke again. “I’m going to be honest with you,” I tell him. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel.”

“You should feel vindicated,” he says.

My eyes burn. I shut them tight. A hot tear slips down my cheek. Then another. “Why?”

“Because,” he says. “Harris Blanchard left this world trying to do to another girl what he did to Emily.”

“What?”

“People are talking about it, Cam. They’re calling him a rapist. They’re saying ‘Justice for Emily’ again.”

“Who’s saying that?”

“Lots of people. There were so many comments on Lisette Blanchard’s Instagram, she closed down her account.”

I exhale. “Come on, Luke. You know better than to believe online gossip. Think about what they were saying about me a few weeks ago.”

“I know,” he says. “But this stuff is true. And he was escalating.”

My hand freezes on the door handle.

“Jim Grady told me. He knows a detective in the Burlington area, so I asked him to do some digging.”

“Is that . . . Is that kosher?”

“He’s a friend. You’ve met him. He knows where my heart comes from. He wanted to find out himself.”

“Okay, fine.”

“When did you get so concerned over the sharing of police information?”