Like, Follow, Kill. Carissa Lynch Ann
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soon’. They threw around ‘prayers’ like handfuls of confetti.
They said all the stupid things that people say when they know there’s nothing else to be said.
But how did no one else see the man?
The fact that he looked like Chris was fucking with me … Could it all be in my own head? Am I losing my mind, just as Valerie thought she was losing hers …?
No. The photos from her old posts proved it—this wasn’t the man’s first, or even second, encounter with Valerie. He was obviously following her—stalking her—and closely enough to be captured in the background on three occasions now. How many more times had he been around, only he didn’t get captured in a photo? I wondered. And he’s not Chris. Just because he has dark eyes and hair, and a similar build, doesn’t make him Chris …
Chris is dead.
Hannah had texted me today, like clockwork:
Hannah: I tried to call again. Can we chat on the phone? You never responded to my messages the other day. You okay?
My imaginary response: No … no, I’m not okay. I’m worried about a woman I barely know. Unable to help her because I can’t leave my apartment—correction: won’t leave my apartment. And even if I did—if I could—what the hell good would it do? A man that looks like my dead husband is following a girl I haven’t seen in over a decade … and for some reason, I’m bent out of shape about it.
I didn’t know Valerie’s exact location. I didn’t know who the man in the window was, or if Valerie was in some sort of danger …
I rotated my thumbs, hesitating, before finally, I typed back to Hannah:
Me: Doing well! Working hard on a writing project. Talk soon, I promise.
Working hard, indeed.
In reality, I was working hard not to fall apart because my latest addiction had run dry.
Oh, Valerie. I need my fix.
Her un-updated page stared back at me like an empty syringe.
Or an empty glass.
I clicked send, then added another message to my sister:
Me: Miss you too, Hannah. I’m fine. Really.
What am I going to do if Valerie never comes back online? I wondered. I had to do something to help her … to check up on her … but what if something terrible has already happened? What if I’m too late?
My thoughts were quickly spinning out of control. I could ask Hannah for advice, tell her what was going on … but then she’d just give me that look, the one from the other day … that look of disapproval and concern. She thinks I’m a drunk and a pill addict …
I sat up in bed and refreshed my browser. For the hundredth time today, I checked local crime reports in Kentucky. I checked Indiana and Ohio, too, since they were close. Lastly, I checked New Orleans. Nada.
There were crimes, plenty of them. Burglary, assault, driving while intoxicated … but no mention of a young pharmaceutical rep vanishing from her hotel room. No pretty-girl murders splashed dramatically across the front page, no catchy taglines about stalkers or kidnappings …
As popular as Valerie was online, I wasn’t sure how long it would be before her real-life friends or family missed her. She had an aunt who lived in town … Janet, she said her name was. But Valerie’s employer … surely, they would know if she never made it to New Orleans. Wouldn’t they?
I rolled onto my back, staring up at the popcorn patterns on the ceiling above my bed. They swirled, triggering a sick rush of something in my gut … fear? No, not fear—memory. I blinked slowly, the tilt-o-whirl roof from the night of the accident flashing like a blinking bulb in my face. Chris’s voice, pleading in the dark … was he pleading or screaming …?
Fuck. I have to do something. I can’t just sit here and do nothing to help her.
Valerie worked for a company called Rook Pharmaceuticals. They weren’t the biggest branch of big pharma, but they were damn near close.
For one silent second, my next move became clear.
Valerie could be in danger. And if there’s no one to help her or warn her, then I could be the only one who does.
As I sat up, there was a new form of energy pumping through my veins.
I composed my message in a Word document, then read over it a dozen times before finally copying and pasting it into a message on Instagram. I exhaled, then clicked send:
Valerie,
I know it’s none of my business, but I couldn’t help but notice something strange in the background of your latest video. A strange man peering in the window behind you. I noticed him in the background of some of your other pictures as well. I know we don’t know each other well and we weren’t all that close in school … but I’m worried about you. After that other video about the man following you from the bar, I was a little concerned that maybe the man in the window was him … that maybe you have a stalker. Please write me back.
Next, I looked up the phone number for Rook Pharmaceuticals. The receptionist who answered was young, her words breathy and practiced.
My words, on the other hand, sounded like someone else’s—throaty and strained.
I cleared my throat, “My name is Janet Hutchens. My niece is employed as a rep with your company.”
Silence.
“Umm … her name is Valerie. She was traveling on business to Kentucky, and then her next stop was New Orleans. I’ve been unable to reach her on her cell the last couple days, and I was hoping you had another line where I could reach her. Or could you just check in on her, please?”
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