Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(4)

I pause. I want to get this right. “Because it happens every day. Not just to celebrities, or people like me who’ve drawn attention; it happens to ordinary people. Even to children. And our laws, and our law enforcement, haven’t adjusted to deal with this problem at all. But I’m not here to save the world. Just my kids.”

“From what, exactly?”

“Misinformation,” I say. “Lies that take hold and gin up more outrage, more harassment. So I want to tell my story.” Even saying that makes me shake inside. I’ve spent so much time running. This is, in many ways, the hardest thing I’ve done, being so . . . vulnerable.

“The floor is yours,” Howie says. “That’s why we’ve given you this time.”

So I do. I tell him about marrying my ex, about our early life when I had no clue that the demands he placed on me in the home, in our bedroom, were anything but normal. I was too young and too sheltered to know better. I’d been told to be sweet, be accommodating, be what my husband expected from me. And once the kids came, it was too late to listen to my instincts. I was too afraid to look at the truth.

Until the truth crashed into Melvin’s workshop—the one he never let me enter—in the form of a drunk driver. That was the day Melvin’s gruesome, cruel handiwork first saw the light of day.

When I go silent there, remembering that moment and fighting that memory, Hamlin leans forward. “Gwen, let’s get right to the point here. You had to know, didn’t you? How could he bring these young women into your home and you not know?”

I try to explain about his locked workshop, his night-owl hours. Hamlin pretends to listen, but I can see he’s just waiting for me to finish. When I do, he says, “You understand why many, many people doubt your story, don’t you? They simply can’t imagine that you slept side by side with a killer and never had a clue.”

“Ask Ted Bundy’s girlfriend,” I say. “Ask Gary Ridgway’s wife. Ask Dennis Rader’s entire family. There might have been signs, but I couldn’t recognize them for what they were. I never imagined he was doing these things, or I would have tried to stop him.”

“Tried?” Hamlin repeats.

“He’d have killed me,” I say. “And he’d have had our children to do with as he pleased. I can’t even imagine what that would have been, and I don’t want to. I survived, Mr. Hamlin. I did that for my children, and I will keep doing it, no matter what comes.”

I’m fairly happy with the way I’ve phrased it, but I’m on guard now; why is he pushing me? This isn’t what we agreed on. He’s supposed to be helping me, not interrogating me.

“Let’s go back to your husband, Melvin Royal. He continued to pursue you even while he was behind bars, that was your claim, wasn’t it? Part of your harassment? Surely that part had nothing to do with faceless strangers on the internet.”

Claim. I nearly snap at him. I feel like a prisoner in this chair, and I hate the feeling. I can’t glance at the camera, but I know it’s staring; the red ON AIR light is a smear in my peripheral vision. I try to focus on Hamlin’s face, but it’s a blur. I keep seeing people moving around me, and I hate it, hate it. I don’t like people sneaking up on me.

“Gwen?”

I realize that I’m staring at him with a blank expression, and I try to remember the question. Melvin. He’s talking about Melvin. “My husband sent me letters,” I tell him. “Someone inside the prison smuggled them out for him; we now think he’s scattered them all over the country for people to send, even posthumously. There’s still an investigation underway into that, as far as I know.”

“And did you keep these letters? Show them to prison officials? The police?”

“The first ones,” I say. My throat feels dry. My fingers twitch. “But he was already on death row. There wasn’t a lot they could do to punish him.”

“Hmm.” He draws it out, and he’s assumed a thoughtful expression. “And you have records of all of these internet threats you say you received?”

Why is he doubting me? What the hell is going on here? “Of course I do, including police and FBI records of the harassment. Look, there’s no point in continuing this if you’re—”

“Your contention is that it started out coming from the families of Melvin Royal’s victims?”

I’m in the act of rising to walk away, but now I sit down again. I hadn’t wanted to go there. In fact, I’d told the producer I wouldn’t answer questions about the victims or their families. I need to head this off. “I don’t want to talk about the victims’ families.”

“Why not? They were the original people who were angry with you, weren’t they?”

I do not want to blame the families. I can’t leave that as the impression. “I don’t blame people who were dealing with an impossible load of grief and anger. I blame the complete strangers who piled on to satisfy their own needs.”

“Did you bring any examples of this harassment we can show our audience? For the purpose of establishing your case, of course.”

I feel color burning my cheeks and chin. My case? Am I on trial here? “No,” I say. I try to keep it calm and level. “I didn’t. And I wouldn’t. They’re vile.”