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My plan is to go home, grab a quick shower, then meet Tori at one of our favorite bars, but I’m surprised to see her walking into my studio while I’m locking up.
“Hey, I thought we were meeting at eight-thirty.” One glance at her face when she looks up at me and I know something is wrong. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“Have you checked any of your social media in the last few hours?”
“What? No, I’ve been working.” I scoop up my phone and my stomach drops at the number of notifications. I’ve been tagged—or rather my business accounts have been tagged—hundreds of times. It wouldn’t be an alarming sight, but her demeanor tells me this isn’t positive. “What the hell happened?”
Tori hands me her phone. The article from Modern Motherhood has been shared by someone with the username Poetic Kicks, along with a statement aimed at the magazine.Is your magazine in the habit of promoting murderers? Ella and her fiancé’s brother had her fiancé killed so they could be together. I can’t believe you’d advise unsuspecting women to take their babies anywhere near her or her studio.
The post ends with a link to the local news story that was broadcast right after Oliver was arrested. It wasn’t big enough news to be national, and the story died out quickly, but judging by the amounts of shares and comments on this, it’s getting attention now.
“It’s viral,” Tori says.
Her words barely register while I scroll the comments.
OMG, is this true?
Did they kill him? This is wild!
The article says the brother was arrested but not her. Idk.
Poetic Kicks replies with a picture of Oliver and me. His arm is around me, and I’m smiling at him. It gives the impression of a happy couple. The comments after that take a quick turn against me and Modern Motherhood. There are calls for boycotting my store and their magazine.
I hand Tori her phone back and switch to look at another platform on mine. Someone has put Oliver’s mugshot, the picture of the two of us, and the picture of me from the magazine into one side by side image. Scrawled across it isBaby Photographer Exposed as Murderer.
The comments are everything you’d expect.
“I can’t believe this,” I whisper, shaking my head.
“I know. I’m sorry. Lock up and come with me,” Tori orders.
My stomach rolls, and I have to swallow hard to keep my lunch where it belongs. “I’m not feeling up to going out tonight. I’m going to go home.” I’m not sure how bad this will get. It could die out quickly, but I doubt it. It’s too juicy of a story for the internet not to run with.
“We’re not going out.”
My attention is on my phone as I scroll through the comments, watching things get worse and worse. Tori snatches the phone out of my hand. “Ella!” Her eyes blaze with anger. “We aren’t going out. We’re going to go to my place and figure out who the fuck Poetic Kicks is.”
Right. My brain feels scrambled. Overwhelmed with the dire possibilities of how this could go. I need to focus. “Okay, yeah. Let’s go.”
Who would want to do this to me?
Hours later, I sit on Tori’s couch, scrolling and trying not to panic while she types away on her laptop next to me. I’ve always teased Tori about being an internet stalker. Whenever she had a date in the past, she would track down everything about them online. Despite her skills, this one isn’t as easy.
I’m not sure how much it matters who shared the article with the link. The damage is done. Right now, I’m more focused on figuring out what—if anything—to do. Oliver called once someone pointed out to him what was happening, full of apologies for “dragging me down with him.” Of course, it’s not his fault, but he feels guilty anyway.
It’s all such a fucking mess.
Tori has found a place to point her anger. She’s determined to find out the identity of Poetic Kicks. It’s not going well so far. It’s an anonymous account that posts pictures of designer shoes and some of the worst amateur poetry I’ve ever read. It’s an odd combination.
“This bitch’s account had less than fifty followers when I first saw it. Now she has ninety thousand. And climbing. Whoever did this, it worked for her.”
“I’m opening another bottle of wine,” I tell her, getting to my feet. Without looking away from her screen, she hands me her empty wine glass to refill.
It’s a good thing Tori keeps plenty of bottles on hand. I’m definitely draining her supply. I pour myself a glass, drink half of it, refill it, then return to the living room to deliver hers. My head swims, and I close my eyes for a second, laying my head back.
What do I do? I’m trying my best not to overreact and fall apart. People get called out and cancelled all the time. It blows over. Surely, this will too, right?
My hand seems to be magnetized because my phone ends up right back in it. Reading the comments isn’t helping anything but I can’t look away. Which means I see Modern Motherhood’s response moments after they post.
