Page 66 of Someone Just Followed You

Except of course I do have somewhere to go, if I choose to. A bedroom with its own en-suite in a plush house in one of Provo’s nicest neighborhoods. I’m lucky compared to so many girls my age. Girls exploited by disgusting men for real, like whoever’s body is being used with my face on the dark web.

Because those photos come from somewhere. Even if they’re AI generated now, the technology only works because someone took a picture of a naked child and made it public. And not one, but thousands. Children exploited by vile men all over the world.

Fucking, skanky, disgusting pedophiles.

Well, maybe I’m done with it. With feeling ashamed, and scared, and guilty, when it’s not my fault. None of our faults. And I’m done with my parents too, for lying to me for fourteen years, then shouting the news out from the poolside because they’ve got some points to score. Like my feelings don’t count.

Fuck them all.

And fuck risk too, because I’m going to Vegas. I’m going to find Ella and tell her that I know exactly how she feels, about all of it. Being sexually abused by thousands of men without even knowing about it, having parents who never put you first, trying to be the girl everyone else wants you to be, and feeling bad for hating it. And I’ll tell her how badly I need her. That I won’t be able to get through all this without her.

I open TikTok. Shit, I’ve only got two percent battery left on my phone. I quickly find Brandoninthesky and send him a message while I still can.

I’m coming to find Ella. I’ll be on the first bus out of Provo tomorrow morning. Meet me at that bus station, like you said.

I press send and watch my phone die.

I stare at the dead, black screen. But instead of feeling scared of having no way to communicate, I feel free. Because no one can make demands on me now. No ‘get ready with me’ videos to record, or comments to respond to, or Mom making me feel guilty for never being enough.

It’s just me, and a tiny glimmer of hope in Vegas.

I know the next bus is a Greyhound leaving Provo tomorrow morning at 7.50 a.m. because I checked the schedule after Brandon messaged me earlier. Before Mom and Dad sent me spiraling. It means I’ll have to spend the night at Provo Central Station, which isn’t ideal, especially without a working phone. But I’m not doing this because it’s easy.

I turn in the direction of the main bus station and start walking.

Chapter 76

Maple

@Richboy25_rn, TikTok

Hey, I’ve heard that Netflix are making a documentary about the Harts and it’s going to destroy them. Can anyone confirm or deny??

I hand over one hundred and twenty dollars to the tired-looking woman at the Greyhound desk, then take the slip from her like it’s Willy Wonka’s golden ticket.

When I first got to the station waiting room last night, I felt good. I bought a sandwich and a hot chocolate from the kiosk, then found a magazine someone had left behind and lost myself in that for a while. But as it got later, and the station got quieter, the staff started looking interested in me, like they were questioning why a kid my age was there on my own so late, and I knew I couldn’t stay.

Provo Central Station is a sprawling place, a transport hub for trains as well as buses, with a huge parking lot for cars and bikes, so it was easy enough to find a place to hide. But the shadows still freaked me out. And the noises. Scratches and scuffles. A few distant screams, which could have been human or animal, I couldn’t tell. And it was so cold. I curled up underneath a bench with my knees inside my hoodie, but I didn’t shut my eyes. I just waited for night to be done, and tried not to regret my decision.

When the sky finally turned a dirty gray color, I uncurled myself and came back inside. But I haven’t slept, and even with the sun warming things up, I still feel cold in my bones.

‘Oh, also,’ I say, turning back to the ticket lady. ‘Is there anywhere I can charge my phone?’ I might have been happy with a dead battery last night, but today I need to be able to communicate.

‘Sure,’ the woman says, pointing at a bank of chargers in the far corner of the waiting room.

I walk over, but as I reach for a cable, I pause, remembering how Mom tracked me to the maple tree last week. I can’t have her screeching over here and demanding I go home, so as soon as my phone lights up, I cancel sharing my location on Find My iPhone and turn the Map function off on Snapchat. Next, I check TikTok and it’s there, as I expected, a message from Brandon. This one’s short – just confirming he’ll pick me up – and I delete it along with mine.

An hour later, with a fresh supply of snacks, I finally climb aboard the Greyhound bus and choose a window seat halfway down. I look out as the familiar streets of south Provo fly past, but I’m desperate for sleep, so when we leave the city, I rest my head back against the cushion and close my eyes. Except that brings on a weird sensation, like exhaustion butting up against panic. I shift in my seat a few times, but nothing helps, so eventually I open my eyes again.

Of course I can’t sleep. I’m all alone, heading out of state on the advice of a stranger, to save a girl I’ve never met. And I’ve told no one about it. I know the holy trinity of online safety rules – don’t believe what someone you meet online tells you; always think twice before meeting up with them in real life; if you do choose to meet them, make sure a friend or family member knows about it. I’m breaking all of them.

I pull out my phone. I can’t cope with talking to anyone, to hearing someone tell me how stupid I’m being. But I could send Coco a voice note. Then at least someone will know what I’m doing. I hold the microphone close, then talk at low volume, explaining why I’m taking the risk, hoping it will play into Coco’s own fight for justice. She opens the voice note straight away. But shit, now she’s video-calling me.

I cut the call. And again a second time, and a third. Dammit, why doesn’t she get the hint that I don’t want to speak?

Then she swaps to audio. Her fourth attempt to get hold of me. Her fifth.

Fuck this.