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Zen comes to us because Sabre won’t leave the three of us home alone for extended periods of time. By nine we have a ring of laptops spread in a semicircle around our dining room table. Zen has two cables running from Noah’s phone to one of the laptops so he can make copies of the chats and the fake verification Dylan sent.

“All the verification this asshole provided is fake. That’s why he sent screenshots instead of links,” Zen explains. “Screenshots let Dylan pick and choose. Noah wasn’t seein’ the world’s opinion, because he has it locked down. Only friends can see what he’s posting and comment. He was seein’ carefully curated comments from his family’s church friends.”

I pick up on what Zen’s saying right away. “So, in other words, Dylan doesn’t actually want the world looking for Noah. If he did, his social media would be public.”

Zen nods. “Why risk his nine-year-old makin’ a decision with fair and balanced information when you can just show him what you want him to see.”

Sabre speaks up, “I need a burner phone for Noah set up. Do you have one in your bag?”

“Yeah, I’m normally packing half a dozen at any given time, in case things go bad in the field. I’ll get it sorted and leave it on the counter,” Zen says.

“We should probably get rid of this phone,” I say. “Noah’s made it pretty clear that he never wants to hear from him again. Other than Sabre, the only other numbers he has saved are his school friends. We can program them into his new phone.”

“We could do that but hear me out.” Sabre leans forward and explains. “I say we leave the phone on and the communication open. Who knows, maybe we can lure Dylan into a meetup or something.”

“I don’t want Noah having any more contact with him,” I protest.

“Noah won’t,” Sabre explains. “I’ll have the phone.”

“Okay. Do it,” I say.

Sabre holds my eyes a second longer, making sure I don’t change my mind, and then gets started.

Chapter 13

Linsey

Every night after Noah goes to bed, the same thing happens. Zen’s laptop opens, and they put their heads together to impersonate Noah. I know they have my son’s best interests at heart. And lying to a liar isn’t inherently wrong, especially one intent upon harming us. But something about this feels sketchy.

They send messages that sound like they’re coming from a scared, confused nine-year-old. They’re good at it. Sometimes, I chime in with advice based on what I know of Dylan. I know we’re in a morally gray area, but I’m not going to take the moral high ground with someone manipulating my child online. Fuck Dylan Everett.

I give them pointers on how to write like Noah does. I’ve paid enough attention to my son to know all his writing quirks, the way he misspells certain words and how he will occasionally use double question marks for emphasis.

Even being paranoid and suspicious by nature, Dylan buys their ruse. He spends hours pouring poison into what he thinks is his son’s ear. Most of it is a bunch of misogynistic crap with a side of religion to make it easier for the average person to swallow.

Meanwhile, the rest of our life keeps rolling along. Noah does his schoolwork and happily does the little chores we’ve assigned him. He’s always keen to do his part-time job of checking doors and windows three times a day. He likes putting the twenty bucks a week he earns together with the twenty-dollar weekly allowance I give him. That’s big-time money for a kid his age. To his credit, my son saves almost all of it.

He’s sleeping through the night again. And even received a hand-drawn card that says GET WELL SOON and a little sketch of a throwing knife dripping blood into a big red smiling face. So strange. I’m not sure how I feel about that one. I eventually decide it’s the thought that counts.

This goes on for a few days and then finally, after an exchange of messages, Dylan sends the one we’ve been dreading.

You showed her, didn’t you? You showed that despicable, lying mother of yours our chats. I can tell. You must be a liar, like your mother. I thought you were better than this.

We didn’t get any response to our texts on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. Zen keeps watch over the dead account. But by the fifth day of silence on Dylan’s part, I can read the truth on both their faces.

“He could be out there right now,” Zen says. “Or he could be fourteen hundred miles away.”

“Maybe distance doesn’t matter. He managed to get close enough to hurt him online.”

Sabre comes over and pulls me into his arms. I rest my cheek against his chest. I allow him to hold me because this is a luxury I’ve never had before, and I like it.

Zen closes the laptop halfway and rubs his eyes. “The kid’s account is burned. He’ll keep the account open because he can’t help himself, but he probably won’t talk again now that he thinks Linsey is monitoring the conversations.”

Sabre rubs my back. “Too bad. We almost had him schedule a meetup a couple of times, and something spooked him.”

Zen’s voice turns excited again. “Maybe he’ll respond to Linsey directly.”