Down to the Liar(3)

From what I’ve seen so far, I’m putting my money on a group of miffed and bored mean girls who have targeted Skyla as a scapegoat. They’re not posting about anyone else—only Skyla. And they aren’t holding back. The suggestions that Skyla commit suicide in new and interesting ways are nauseating. Which is saying something, because it takes a lot to unsettle me.

“When did it start?” I ask as Yaji drops off my triple soy caramel macchiato.

“A few weeks ago.” Skyla alternates between wringing her hands and tucking strands of her skinny black braids behind her ear. “I ignored it at first. But it’s getting so bad. And now the pictures.”

“Pictures?” I say before taking a sip.

Bryn positions the computer so she can click to the right place. When she finds it, I wince. Someone obviously doctored the photo, stretching Skyla’s features and body into grotesque configurations.

“It gets worse,” Bryn says. She drapes an arm around Skyla. “They reference Skyla’s class schedule, describe her hairstyle or what she’s wearing on any given day—”

“Which means the cyberjerks are within frequent eyeshot of her,” I finish.

Bryn says, “I’ve been trying to get her to go to the dean for weeks. When they started mentioning her boyfriend, Garrett, in their attack posts, I finally convinced her to come to you.”

I tap the table, thinking. “Does Murphy know about this yet?”

Bryn shakes her head, so I text him to get his bespectacled self down here. It’s just shy of seven, so I’m pretty sure he’s still upstairs in our office above the Ballou. My phone buzzes a second later with a snarky emoji, which I take to mean that he’s on his way.

“Have you pissed anyone off lately?” I ask Skyla.

“No.” Skyla leans against Bryn. I expected her to elaborate, maybe even get defensive, but she leaves it at a simple negative.

“Any idea at all who it could be?”

She closes her eyes and shakes her head.

Bryn looks at me accusingly. “Isn’t it your job to find out?”

“I don’t know. Is it?” I study Skyla as I ask. “What exactly are you hiring me to do?”

“Just make it stop,” Skyla says without opening her eyes.

Dani shrugs when I look for her opinion. It’s her up to you shrug. She has a lot of shrugs.

“What’s up?” Murphy asks when he joins us. He scoots in next to Bryn on the love seat she’s sharing with Skyla. They’re an odd couple, especially when seen so close together—like Barbie and Michael Cera instead of Ken.

Bryn angles the computer so Murphy can see the adulterated picture of Skyla. He sucks a breath through his teeth as he clicks through the multiple hater accounts.

“Damn,” he says softly, shooting Skyla a sympathetic look as he leans back in his chair. “That sucks, Sky. I’m sorry.”

“Do you think you can find out who’s behind this?” I ask him.

“Not sure. Anyone can set up a free email account and start an anonymous Facebook page. We can’t tell who’s accessing a specific Facebook account unless we have eyes inside their computer.”

“I don’t care who it is,” Skyla says.

“You don’t care who it is?” I say, amazed. If it were me, the first thing I’d want to know was who was responsible. “Well, even if you don’t, it’s the only way to permanently stop whoever’s doing it. We could probably get Facebook to shut down their fake accounts, but more accounts would just pop up. You have to pull this kind of thing up by the root. Hacking at its heads is only going to make it worse.”

“Whatever. I don’t care how you stop it. I just don’t want to know.”

I guess I can appreciate that. If I could unknow what happened to Tyler, if I could unsee his blood all over my hands, I’d barter my soul away in a second. Knowing is not for everyone.

“We may have to publicly shame them to get them to stop,” I point out.

“No.” Skyla’s eyes pop open and she leans toward me, her face hard. “I don’t want that. I’m hiring you to make it stop, but not that way.” She shudders, pulling herself together. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be so intense about this, but I can’t make it any clearer. I don’t want to know who it is. I don’t want to have to deal with it if I see them in the halls. I still have two years to go in this white-ass school. No offense, Bryn.”