‘Maybe,’ Ben said. ‘But it helps, right? Figure out who could know you got the friend request and you know who sent it.’
‘No one knows,’ Sarah said. ‘How would anyone know?’
‘What about the person who told you there was another account in your name? What was her name?’
‘Rachel,’ she said. ‘Rachel Little.’
‘Maybe it was her. She’d know you’d found the account, since she told you about it.’
‘No,’ Sarah said. ‘It can’t be her. She’s not been in Barrow for years.’
Ben shrugged. ‘Ask her.’
‘Maybe I will. But first I need to speak to Jean.’
Jean lived on the next street. To walk on the road was about a half mile, but there was a path through the trees which connected their backyards. Sarah called on her way along it to let her friend know she was coming.
Thankfully, Jean was still up. Even though it was only half past nine, that was not a given: she was a single mom with two adopted kids, so early nights were the norm. Her former husband – father of the two kids she had adopted – had died three years ago in a hit-and-run car accident. They never found the driver; there was a stolen car, abandoned a few miles away with a dent in the hood, a web of cracks in the windshield, and an empty bottle of whiskey in the footwell. There was also a syringe on the passenger seat.
The car had been stolen from the Rite-Aid car park in Barrow; the cops had CCTV footage of it leaving the car park but they could not identify the driver, who was wearing a hooded top. They assumed it was a petty thief looking to make a few bucks for their next fix of heroin, which was the drug of choice in Maine for those who could not get their hands on prescription opiates.
She’d had a rough time of it, Jean, but she was one of those people who somehow managed to carry on. Even after Jack had died, she’d tried to focus on the positives. She’d said to Sarah that at least she had the kids – she couldn’t have any of her own – so they would be her family for the rest of her life.
They were lucky to have her as a mom, Sarah replied. As she was to have her as a friend.
Sarah opened the back door and walked into the kitchen.
‘Hi,’ Jean said. She was making sandwiches for her sons’ lunches. ‘What’s up?’
‘Well,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s been one of those days.’
Jean raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’
‘Did you hear about Rachel Little?’
‘Coming back to Barrow?’ Jean nodded. ‘She sent me a friend request.’
‘Me too,’ Sarah said. ‘Anything weird about yours?’
‘No,’ Jean said. ‘What do you mean, weird?’
‘Well, she asked me which was my true profile.’
Jean pursed her lips and frowned. ‘I don’t get it.’
Sarah passed her phone to Jean. ‘She meant this.’
Jean put the knife down and swiped her finger over the screen. She studied it for a few seconds.
‘Holy shit,’ she said. ‘What the hell is this?’
‘That’s my question. And ten minutes ago I got a friend request. From this fake account. So someone knew I’d just found out about it.’
‘Oh my God,’ Jean said. ‘Who would know? And who was at all the places the photos were taken?’
‘Nobody I can think of,’ Sarah said. ‘Other than me.’
‘Right. And it wasn’t you.’
Sarah paused. ‘Ben thought it might be Rachel. She knew I’d seen the account, because she alerted me to it.’
‘I guess,’ Jean said. ‘But I don’t know how it could be her. How would she have got the photos? She’d need to have been around Barrow for the last six months, which rules her out. She’s been on the West Coast.’
They looked at Rachel’s profile to check; she had been working as a psychologist in San Diego, specializing in grief counseling and post-traumatic stress disorder. It made sense; there was a large military presence down there. That was all there was, though: her profile was only a few weeks old.
‘She’s new to Facebook,’ Sarah said. ‘So it could all be bullshit she put on her profile, when all along she’s been much closer to home.’
‘Maybe,’ Jean said. She looked doubtful. ‘But it seems a bit of a stretch. And you still have the question of why she would be doing this. You guys got along OK in high school, right?’
‘More or less. She was pretty quiet. I didn’t have much to do with her.’ Sarah paused. ‘Although there was one time we were kind of at odds, over that guy Jeremy.’
Jean nodded slowly. ‘I remember,’ she said. ‘Sort of. But it was no big deal, right?’
Jeremy had showed up in their sophomore year of high school. He’d come from somewhere in California and he was a new and exotic addition to their lives. He surfed – at least he said he did – talked with authentic West Coast slang about all the grunge clubs in Seattle he’d been to, and wore clothes that Sarah and most of her friends had only seen on MTV.
A week or so into the school year he had asked Sarah out for coffee. She went along; he was funny and charming, but underneath all the clothes and surface cool she realized he was terribly immature. She doubted the truth of most of his stories, and so, after a few more dates, she told him she was no longer interested.
Before she did so, there had been an odd encounter with Rachel. After school one day Rachel had grabbed her elbow and steered her into a classroom. She looked exhausted and on edge, and she asked Sarah what was going on with Jeremy.
Nothing much, Sarah replied. He’s nice but there’s no spark.
Rachel had tears in her eyes when she spoke. Then leave him for me, she said. Leave him for someone who cares.
Before Sarah could reply the door opened and one of the teachers – an English teacher called Mrs Coffin – came in, and Rachel scuttled away.
As far as Sarah knew, she and Jeremy never got together, and in any case, six months later Jeremy was gone, his dad’s job transferred back to the West Coast. Until now, Sarah had never thought of him again.
But all that was nothing to do with this. It was years ago, and it had been irrelevant even back then.
‘I think it’s all a coincidence,’ Sarah said.
‘So whoever’s behind this just happened to send it today?’ Jean replied. ‘Bit weird.’
‘I hope so,’ Sarah said. ‘Because the alternative is someone’s watching me.’
She poured a glass of wine; Jean didn’t drink a great deal but she had half a bottle someone had left after a cook-out at the weekend. She stared at the red liquid, looking at her distorted reflection. It was ridiculous. Either this was some kind of elaborate joke or Rachel Little was doing it or there was some fucking stalker out there, but whatever it was, it was crazy.
And it had been going on for six months. For six months someone had been on Facebook, pretending to be her. The more she thought about it, the more scared she became.
‘Who’s she friends with?’ Jean said. ‘The fake Sarah?