Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(3)

Doesn’t help. I still want to bolt out of this place and never come back. The only thing that holds me in place is the sight of my kids, Lanny and Connor, watching from the greenroom. It’s a worn waiting area with a soundproof window to the studio so the people inside can watch the action. Lanny gives me an excited thumbs-up. I manage a smile somehow. I’m sweating my makeup off, I know it. I’m so unused to wearing it now that it feels like a layer of latex paint, smothering me.

I flinch at a touch on my shoulder, and when I turn, there’s a bearded guy in a ball cap with something in his hand. I nearly hit him. Then I realize it’s just a small microphone with a long cord attached.

“I’m going to hand this to you; you run it under your shirt and clip it on your collar, okay?” he says. I guess he sees how jumpy I am, because he takes a step back. I shove the tiny mic under the hem of my blouse, and take it up to where it’s supposed to be; he nods when I get it into position, then drops a battery pack behind me in the chair. “Okay, you’re live,” he says. I reply with a thanks I don’t feel. The wire feels cold against my bare skin. I wonder if the microphone can pick up my shallow, rapid breathing. I fiddle with the placement, just to be sure.

“Two minutes,” someone out in the darkness says, and I jerk upright. The host is still lingering offstage. I feel deeply alone and exposed. The lights blaze on, blinding me; I have to resist the urge to put up my hand to block the glare. I lace my fingers together to keep myself from fidgeting.

At the one-minute mark, the host steps up on the riser. He’s a solidly built middle-aged white man, dark hair going silver at the temples. He’s wearing a nice dark-blue suit, and I immediately wonder if I’m underdressed. Or overdressed. This is not me; I don’t care about these things. Usually.

But then, I’ve never been live for a TV audience before either. Not of my own volition, anyway.

“Hey, Gwen, how are you?” he says, and we shake hands. His feels warm against my ice-cold fingers. “Listen, don’t worry about anything. I know this is nerve-racking, but we’ll get you through it, okay? Just trust me. I’ve got you covered.”

I nod. I have no choice at this point. He has a warm smile, the same temperature as his hands. It’s all a normal day at work to him.

I try another deep breath.

Thirty seconds crawl by, and then there’s a countdown. The last three counts are silent hand signals, and then the host’s smile lights up on cue. He leans a bit forward toward the camera. “Hello, and welcome to this extraordinary episode of Howie Hamlin. Now, we’ll be covering later in the program the shocking ongoing case of the abduction of little Ellie White, but before that we’ll have an in-depth discussion of the case everyone has been talking about: Melvin Royal. There’s been one very important voice missing from this media clamor, and we’re so lucky to have her with us today: Gwen Proctor, or as she was previously known, Gina Royal. Gina Royal was the wife of the infamous serial killer Melvin Royal, who was recently shot dead in Louisiana during what can only be described as an unbelievably brutal attack on his—”

I can’t stand it. I interrupt him. “Ex,” I say, and bring Howard—Howie—Hamlin to a sudden halt in his polished intro. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but I’m his ex-wife. I divorced him a long time ago.”

He takes a brief beat and says, “Yes, yes, of course, you’re quite right, and that is my mistake. He was your ex-husband at the time this shocking incident occurred. So you’d like to be called Gwen Proctor now, not Gina Royal, is that correct?”

“That’s my legal name.” I’ve had it changed, officially, as well as the names of my children. Gina Royal no longer exists. She barely existed in the first place, looking back on it.

“Of course. So, Gwen, just to make sure our viewing audience is caught up on this incredible tale . . . when Melvin Royal was initially caught several years ago with a young woman’s body still in the house you shared with him, you were also accused of helping him in his abductions. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” I say. “I was acquitted.”

“So you were!” He sounds smoothly approving. “But after that you went on the run, changing your name and location multiple times. Why do that if you were innocent?”

I have a vibe now, and I don’t like it. Something’s off. I sense this isn’t going to be the softball interview I was promised. “I am innocent, but there were death threats being delivered to me and my kids on a daily basis. Internet harassment and threats of rape and violence constantly. I did what was necessary to protect my family.” I don’t mention that Melvin kept finding us too. Sending letters. That’s a can of vipers I don’t want to open.

“Didn’t you go to the police?”

“The police are always reluctant to act on anonymous threats, which is an issue those with stalkers know all too well. I chose to take actions to be sure my kids were safe.”

“I see. But why keep on moving, then?”

“Because one thing internet trolls are really good at doing is working together to find people and victimize them all over again. It’s a game for many of them. I didn’t realize it in the beginning, but my harassment was a highly organized effort. It still is, I’m certain.”

“Then why are you here taking that risk?”