Page 29 of Kill Sleep Repeat
Michael backs away from the window, picks up a stack of mail on the counter and skims through it. Then he looks up at me. “It’s basically fan mail.”
Cracking an egg into the frying pan, I hit it a little too hard and have to go fishing for tiny bits of shell.
“How long do you think fifteen minutes of fame lasts?”
“I don’t know,” I say. It’s something I’ve been wondering myself. Yesterday, when I took Sophie to her basketball game, I was asked for my autograph. Twenty-six John Hancocks later—I know because Hayley counted—I had to excuse myself. And that was before the game. After, there was a mob of people waiting. We had to exit through the locker room, and even then, it was nearly impossible to get to the car amid the swarm of onlookers.
Then, last night, Henry sent me an email with a link to a social media account created in my honor. Several clicks later, I stumbled upon a closed group devoted to other women who want to take matters into their own hands. Vigilante justice at its finest. An eye for an eye, or something like that, as the saying goes. According to Henry, meetings are springing up all over the place, in thirteen countries so far. Self-defense classes, target practice, basic surveillance…you name it, these meetings are all-inclusive.
I wasn’t sure what Henry wanted me to do with the information. Actually, I hadn’t planned to do anything. But then, the deeper I went, and the more misinformation I read, the more I couldn’t help myself. I had to comment. What harm could it do to set up a fake profile and offer up a few pointers? I just wanted to set the record straight.
It started with basic stuff, like how to inflict fatal wounds, knives that are easy to conceal, how to properly dispose of a body, the best silencer on the market, what to do if your gun gets jammed, those sorts of things.
By the time dawn rolled around, my post had been shared so many times my account had tens of thousands of followers. It hadn’t even really hit in the U.S. by that point. Most Americans were still asleep.
I’m eager to check it now. Michael sniffs the air and then walks over to the burner and turns down the heat. I watch the bacon sizzle in the frying pan, burning, because my mind has been elsewhere. There’s no telling how far I could take this.
What else am I supposed to do with all of these endless hours? If I can’t leave the house, if I can’t do my job, if I can’t yet get to Dunsmore myself, the least I can do is minimize the damage by empowering the masses.
Chapter Eighteen
Charlotte
The pure sound of the ball pounds the wooden court. The swish of the net remains unmistakable. “Way to go Sophie!” Michael shouts. We’re seated side by side in the gymnasium, so I have to be careful. Something that becomes apparent when he looks over at me and frowns at the phone in my hands. “She just scored. Were you even watching?”
“Of course, I’m watching.” I glance down at the court and find Sophie, her faced fixed in concentration as a teammate slaps her back.
“Good,” he murmurs, turning his attention to the scoreboard. “Just making sure.”
My phone vibrates in my hand signifying a new comment has been added. I uploaded some new tradecraft tips into the Vigilante
group and the questions are pouring in. The squeak of tennis shoes chirp and give flavor to the answer I type. Basketball is a glorious game. A sport that can be seen by the blind. It’s pure energy, athleticism, with nothing to hide behind. There are no helmets to hide the faces. No pads to hide the body. There is no right fielder in basketball. Everything is laid out in front of the spectator. The game invites itself to your imagination. It seems nothing separates you from the players on the court. They move gracefully from spot to spot. It becomes clear why they’re there and you’re here. When Sophie leaps for the rim, it’s as if she soars. Her awe-inspiring athleticism is enough to make my husband leap similarly from his seat.
Its simplicity is almost too much for me to handle.
“You aren’t watching,” Michael says, nudging me with his elbow.
“I am.” Rhythmically, the ball moves up the court. Through the hoop it goes—this time it’s the opposing team who scores—and back we go again. Sophie gets the ball. She shoots and misses. Michael cheers anyway. It goes on as though only a timer could hold us back from eternity.
“I know you hate this,” he seethes, speaking under his breath. “But could you at least pretend.”
“I don’t hate it,” I say, stuffing my phone in my jacket pocket. This is not a lie. I’ve always found the game interesting. There’s no way to hide the player who can’t shoot. Eventually, she will be left open, exposed, as if she’s dared to put one toward the hoop. If she obliges, she seems to face her demons. The shot will fly, and she will likely be defeated. Statistics are statistics for a reason. If the ball clangs, it’s par for the course. However, the opponent will have won.
“THAT’S MY GIRL!” I turn and look at my husband as Sophie scores once more. He’s all lit up, and I think about how we all lie, maybe most of all to ourselves.
I hadn’t expected to ever see him again. But I suppose it was meant to be this way. The best life has to offer often happens out of the blue. I didn’t recognize him straight away. If I had, undoubtedly I would have passed the table along to one of the other servers.
“It’s you—” he said, after I’d rattled off the daily specials. When he glanced up at my name tag, his face fell.
“I’m sorry,” I said, but of course, I recognized him then. That smooth voice. Those dimples, the same hopeful eyes.
“You look like someone—” he stammered. “I thought you were someone else.”
The way he looked at my giant belly, I could tell he was doing the calculations in his head. “Are you sure your name isn’t Olivia?”
I tapped my name tag, pressed my lips into a tight smile and shook my head.
He seemed unfazed, meanwhile his colleagues looked slightly uncomfortable. Men seem to have a keen sense when another man is about to make a fool of himself. “I looked for you, you know. No one seemed to know who you were. It was like you disappeared into thin air—like you’d never existed at all.”