Page 62 of The Fall of Iris Henley
I open up our texts and scroll back as far as I can. There are hundreds of messages. It takes a while to get to the beginning, but neither Jonah nor Max rushes me.
There. August twelfth.Hi Iris! It’s Jonah, from camp.This was followed by roughly thirty hours of silence from me as I scrambled to decide how to respond.
ME
Hello Jonah from camp! What’s up? How was Vermont?
JONAH
Nice and cool, at least compared to Houston. I actually wore outerwear. In August!
ME
I’m so jealous. I wish my grandparents lived somewhere with a breeze. Instead they moved to Phoenix. Like, who does that? Moves from Texas to Arizona? The food’s worse and the weather still sucks
JONAH
I had these cheese curds in Burlington that you would not believe. Sorry your grandparents didn’t want you to be happy.
I look the words over with a sinking feeling in my chest. Jonah had been scheduled to go to Vermont after camp was over. We’d talked about it a little. His maternal grandparents lived there, and he visited every year. But Not-Jonah hadn’t evenhad to phish for that one; I’d delivered it right into his hands. From there it was easy to riff on Burlington and cheese curds: just look up where most domestic flights are routed and what Vermont is known for.
I had been an easy mark.
The texts went on just like that for a while. I’d ask how Jonah’s sister was, and Not-Jonah would say “kind of a pain in my ass.” That’s an easy guess; what sister isn’t? I’d ask if he was auditioning for Houston Youth Symphony again, he’d say “I’ve been practicing nonstop.” I handed Not-Jonah every bit of information he needed, at least at first. And then over time it was easy for Not-Jonah to become a character in his own right. The catfisher introduced new characters, new plotlines and thoughts and feelings. I’d filled in the rest with my own imagination.
“Here,” I say, handing the phone to Jonah. “I’m probably the one that owes you an apology. Now it’s obvious he was phishing.”
He looks through a few pages of the texts. Then he runs his hands through his hair and exhales loudly.
“This is so weird,” he says. “You didn’t ever ask to talk on the phone or anything?”
I shrug. “I brought it up a few times, but you… he… just kind of put it off. Once we had a date to FaceTime, but he said something came up and I didn’t bring it up again.” I think for a moment, trying to figure out how to put the experience into words. “I… was trying not to pressure you. I really liked texting with you and I didn’t want to mess it up, and so I just kind of followed your lead. Except obviously, it wasn’t you.”
“Whoever’s been doing this,” Max puts in, “it looks like they’ve been trying to get information about Iris and her friends, and then posting it all on Sekrit to make her look bad.”
Jonah looks at me, and I nod. I haltingly explain as bestas I can about Rockytruther’s two posts, about the secrets I thought only Jonah knew. His expression changes with every word, shocked, and then angry, and then oddly sad in turn.
“I don’t know what to do now,” I say. “I don’t know who’s doing it, and I don’t know how to get them to stop. After the dance I was sure it was you.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you, Iris.” He says it simply, without a trace of admonishment, but it still makes me feel bad.
“Don’t take it personally.” I look down at my lap. “The person I thought I knew best turned out to be a murderer. I don’t know how to read anyone anymore.”
He reaches across the distance between us and takes my hand in his. I look up at him.
“Whoever did this knew you were in a bad place. They knew what they could get away with,” he says.
Before I can say anything, Max cuts in.
“Hey, I know this is all weird and messed up, but do you mind if I look at your phone?” Max asks. “I’m sorry, I just…”
“Want to make sure I don’t have a bunch of throwaway accounts and stuff,” Jonah says. “I get it. Yeah, that’s fine. Here.” He lets go of my hand to unlock his phone. The loss of contact makes me feel abruptly adrift.
Max starts to move through the screens, looking at apps, opening things up. I turn back to Jonah, who’s still looking at my phone. He comes to one of the photos and frowns.
“This picture was on my friend Marcus’s Insta. But as far as I know, he keeps that account locked.”
“How many mutuals does he have?” I ask.
