Copycat. Alex Lake
outlined what had happened, from the Facebook posts to the fake emails to Carla. As she was finishing, Ben came in with three bottles of IPA.
‘Thanks,’ Ian said, taking a swig from the bottle, then setting it down on the table in front of him. ‘It is pretty unusual,’ he said. ‘I can’t say I’ve ever come across anything quite like it.’ He paused. ‘The closest thing would be a stalker, or an online troll abusing you. We can deal with both of those – it’s not necessarily easy, but there are things we can do. Court orders restricting someone from coming within five hundred feet of you, that kind of thing. If someone’s abusing you online, you can report it to the Internet company, or block them. And mostly cyber abuse turns out to be some keyboard warrior working out his or her frustration at their shitty lives. They’re happy to abuse people behind the safety of their screen, but if they met their target face to face they’d run a mile, although from time to time it can be more serious.’ He paused for another sip. ‘The problem is that this is different. We don’t know who’s doing it.’
‘Right,’ Ben replied. ‘The only name we have is Sarah Havenant, which isn’t really much help. It could be anyone doing this, which makes it hard to deal with.’
Ian looked at Sarah. ‘Do you have any ideas who it might be? Think who would want to do it. And then who would be able to do it.’
‘I tried,’ Sarah said. ‘But I can’t think of who would want to do this. And then there’s the practicality. No one was at all of the places in the photos. At least, I don’t think there was anyone.’
Ben sat forward. ‘One question we should ask is cui bono? Who benefits? Who profits? When there’s not an obvious motive for an action, figuring out who benefits from it might reveal who’s behind it.’
Sarah thought for a few moments. Who did benefit? No one was getting richer. No one was getting anything, other than her, who was getting freaked out. So the question was, who would want to freak her out?
And she couldn’t think of anybody.
‘Has anything changed recently?’ Ian said. ‘At work? New colleagues?’
Sarah shook her head. ‘Apart from the return of Rachel Little, nothing’s new.’
Ian frowned. ‘Rachel Little from high school?’
‘The same. She was out west, and now she’s back. In fact, it was her who told me about the Facebook profile.’
‘Hmm,’ Ian said. ‘Interesting.’
‘You think it could be her?’ Ben said. ‘She seemed harmless enough when I met her.’
‘She was a bit of an oddball, back in the day,’ Ian said.
‘She’s changed,’ Sarah said. ‘Grown up. Like all of us.’
‘It could be her,’ Ian said. ‘It’s not obvious why she would suddenly be doing this, twenty years after we last saw her, but it is a coincidence that she happens to return right when this is going on.’ He shrugged. ‘Coincidences happen, though.’
‘Is there anything you can do?’
‘I can look her up,’ Ian replied. ‘See if there’s anything unusual. I’ll let you know, if there is.’
‘And what should we be doing?’ Ben said. ‘Anything specific?’
‘Be vigilant,’ Ian said. ‘Sarah – if you go somewhere alone, make sure Ben or someone else knows so they can check you got there. Lock your doors and windows at night.’
‘And the kids?’ Sarah said. It was hard to believe she was having to question whether the safety of their children was in any way compromised. ‘Miles and Faye are in camp. Kim’s at day care.’
‘You could mention this to the camp leader and ask them to keep an eye on the kids. Likewise at day care. But they should have security practices around supervision and pickup.’
‘You don’t think we should pull them out?’ Ben said.
‘You could,’ Ian replied. ‘That’s a matter for you.’
‘But then what?’ Sarah said. ‘They’re stuck in the house all day while their buddies are out doing stuff. And we have to work. We’d need a small army of babysitters.’
‘Who are probably less qualified than the professionals to take care of them,’ Ian said. ‘If there was a threat to your kids, I don’t think they’d be particularly safe in the care of a bored teenager.’
‘Then we leave them in,’ Ben said. ‘For now. And you’ll look into Rachel, correct?’
‘Correct,’ Ian said, and got to his feet. ‘Thanks for the beer. I’ll inform the station. If you call for some reason, they’ll know there’s been something going on. And good luck.’
When Ian had left, Ben sat next to Sarah on the couch. He put his arm around her and pulled her close to him. She pressed her cheek against his chest and closed her eyes. She loved Ben in a way which she had not understood was possible until she had met him; she’d had a boyfriend in high school and then a couple in college who she had thought she was in love with – and maybe she was, in a way – but she had felt apart from them, in some important sense. She had liked them, admired them, had great, passionate sex with them, but she had always known she could live without them.
With Ben it was different. It wasn’t that he was better than them, necessarily – no doubt they were loving, responsible fathers and husbands themselves – but she and Ben fitted. They’d met and clicked, right away. They worked. They were happier together than apart: it was, in many ways, as simple as that.
And the feeling had never gone away. There was a strange paradox at the heart of it: she felt totally comfortable with him, trusted he loved her whatever she did, yet at the same time she still wanted to impress him, still wanted to show him she was a strong and intelligent and beautiful woman who merited his ongoing love and attention. She didn’t resent the feeling, because she didn’t think she had to do it. He made it clear he loved her whatever – even when she was an exhausted new mom screaming at him because she was scared and tired and lost and he was there so he was the one she was going to take it out on, or when she’d had a bad day and her nasty side – and she did have a nasty side – was on full display – she never felt his love for her was at risk, because she knew he felt the same way she did: they were lucky they had found each other, and when you got lucky you made sure you didn’t waste it.
And right now she needed the man she loved more than ever.
‘We’ll work this out,’ Ben said. He was unsmiling. ‘And when we do, whoever did this will regret it.’
It was unusual for him to be angry; normally he was more sanguine. When they were younger – it didn’t happen so often now – and other guys chatted her up at bars, or weddings, or parties, he didn’t get mad, didn’t threaten them or glare at them. He left her to deal with it, and, if she mentioned it, he smiled and said other guys could talk to her all they wanted. He was the one going home with her. He was the one who’d be having breakfast with her. He was the one who bought her the sexy underwear she was wearing and who would be taking it off in the not too distant future. At most – if he felt she was uncomfortable – he would wander over, and introduce himself. Shake the guy’s hand, then apologize for interrupting, and tell her the mother-of-the-bride wanted to talk to her, or he wanted to introduce her to a work colleague who was about to leave, or say their taxi had arrived and it was time to go. She loved his confidence, his assumption that his position was not threatened by these half-drunk sleazeballs on the prowl at parties.
She’d asked him once, after a glass of wine too many, What if it wasn’t a sleazeball, but some handsome, charming guy? Would you be threatened then?
He’d laughed. I’d be fine. If you were interested in handsome, charming men you wouldn’t be with me. But