Page 70 of The Fall of Iris Henley
I sit up straight in my chair. “Where?”
Our eyes lock through the screen. Suddenly I find myself wanting desperately to look away.
“Your house, Iris. Your IP address.”
My jaw drops, and I shake my head, mute, uncomprehending.
“My sister checked it a few different ways,” he says. “You’re at 6237 Halifax, right?”
“Yeah, but… but I don’t…”
“There you go. That means it came from your house.” He speaks with a deliberate calm, but I can sense the tension behind it.
“Jonah, I don’t understand. This doesn’t make any—”
“It’s fine,” he says brusquely, but it obviously isn’t. “Look, this is all just weird. I don’t really understand—”
“But I didn’t do this,” I say. I’m begging. It’s pathetic, but I’m begging to be believed. “Someone must have been using my Wi-Fi, and…” Even as I say it I hear how desperate it all sounds. Of course he thinks it’s me. Of course he thinks I’m some kind of unhinged narcissist, some kind of scammer that gets off on creating drama. As insane as that would be, it’s the least insane option.
His brow furrows, and there’s something almost regretful in his voice when he talks again.
“Okay,” he finally says. “Listen, I, uh, I’ve got to go. I hope… I hope you get some help, okay? I hope you can figure out how to end this all.”
It’s the kindest brush-off I could expect. I stare at my screen, where he’s hung up the phone. Just like that, the whole thing isover: the relationship I’d thought we had, and the real one—tenuous and platonic as it’d been—as well. Jonah, my lifeline, is gone.
My mind churns.
Our Wi-Fi is password protected. But how many people know the password? My friends, maybe, and Noelle’s friends.
And, of course, Noelle.
Noelle. My strange, funny, prickly little sister. Who has been friendlier than usual lately, sure, but who has always been jealous to her very bones.
Jealous enough to destroy me?
Back in the living room, she is still on the sofa. She’s paused the movie. When she looks up, her brow is furrowed in concern. Or at least a semblance of concern.
“What?” she asks, when she sees my face.
For a half second I think about asking her point-blank.Did you do this?
Was it you?
But I realize, looking at her expression, that it wouldn’t matter if I did ask her directly. It’d be easy for her to deny. It’d be easy for her to affect outrage:We’ve been getting along so well. Why are you accusing me of something like this?
The catfish has shown, more than anything else, that they’re good at winning my trust. I can’t afford to let them get away with it again.
I can’t risk letting someone fool me again.
So I don’t answer. I turn away from her walk upstairs to my room, my phone never leaving my hand. I pull up Max’s contact information.
I’ve got to get out of here, I type.
I’ve barely sent the message when I get his reply.
Come on over, he says.
CHAPTER 38
