“I’ll make sure and let him know,” I said.
“I have no doubt you will,” Tony said.
I felt my cheeks flush. I hated them for that. “Tell me what you know about Natalie Blythe, Tony,” I said.
“What?”
“Sunny thinks she might be Book Babe,” Melanie Joan said.
Tony stared at her. “Seriously?”
“I know,” she said. “That was my response, too, but Sunny made a convincing case.”
He turned to me.
“I can make it again, if you want,” I said. “The case, I mean.”
“Who is Natalie Blythe?” Spike said.
Before I could answer, there was a soft knock on the door. Spike opened it, and Harold walked in. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Ms. Hart,” he said. “But I thought you might like your phone back. It’s been very active.”
“Who’s been calling?”
“Texting,” Harold said.
“Texting?” Melanie Joan said.
Harold removed the phone from his pocket delicately, as though it were a ticking bomb. He handed it to Melanie Joan face down. During this process, which took about five seconds, the phone vibrated at least ten times.
Melanie Joan turned it over. The color drained from her face. “My God,” she whispered.
“What is it, MJ?” Spike said.
Melanie Joan’s gaze shifted from his face to Tony’s before resting on mine. “I think I’ve been doxed,” she said.
Twelve
Melanie Joan placed her phone back on the mahogany table face up, presumably so that she didn’t have to touch it. Spike, Tony, and I stood next to her, reading the texts as they came in.
HACK
TALENTLESS BITCH
DRUNK OLD P.O.S.
DIE
“Lame bunch of insults,” Tony said.
“Very,” Spike said.
Melanie Joan said nothing. I knew how she felt. It wasn’t the texts themselves. It was the sheer volume of them. And they kept coming, seconds apart, most of them in all caps, many of them from blocked numbers. There were pictures, too—photoshopped depictions of Melanie Joan in grotesque situations. Those were a lot worse than the texts. She stared at her screen. “Why is this happening?” she said. “People like me. They’ve always liked me.”
I understood. Melanie Joan Hall thrived on the love of strangers. She had worked for decades to earn it. But now she was seeing them turn on her, in real time. On her own phone. It seemed almost like a coordinated attack. “Turn your phone off,” I said.
“I can’t. What if…What if Evan calls…Or…”
“He can call me,” I said.
