But Dad doesn’t do that anymore. Mostly he lets the microwave do the cooking. He buys what you can take out of a package and eat a few minutes later.

Nan is careful not to make anything that reminds us of Mom. She leaves spinach out of the Bolognese sauce and chili out of everything. Every year, she makes my second-favorite birthday cake, not knowing that I buy carrot cake from the baker’s at least once a week, remembering Mom’s recipe with every bite.

Nan talks to Dad, but he only says so much before looking weary. Sometimes I see the frustration she tries to hide, an argument bubbling below the surface. But if she tells Dad what she’s thinking, she does it when I’m not around.

She’s been looking after us ever since Mom died, because she didn’t think we could look after ourselves. And whatever Dad thinks, I like it, because it means there’s someone else in the house. She doesn’t only clean the bathroom; she temporarily washes away the gloom.

Dad was angry when she rewrote his story of what happened to Mom. I heard them arguing the day after Nan told me what the Magpie Man had really done.

That’s the problem with love: people show it in different ways. Dad protected me with lies, while Nan thought truth was the best medicine. I think it’s probably a little of both.

When I get home, she boils the kettle like she always does, and although I’ve been dreading this conversation, I say, “I’m going to be on the internet, and you might be, too, if you want to be.”

She looks confused, so I explain the show to her. I say I’ll be a little like a celebrity for a while.

“A celebrity,” she says, rolling the word around her tongue. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

It’s probably not, but what choice do I have? I’m not doing this for that kind of fame. If it happens anyway, I’ll deal with it.

Thirteen times, the Magpie Man has struck, and thirteen times, he has left nothing behind but a body.

“It’s something I have to do,” I tell Nan, and because she always wants the best for me, she agrees not to have her face blurred out.

“I’ll have to get my hair done,” she says.

Chapter 16

“You can’t be serious,” Hanna says, and Emily, at exactly the same time, screeches and hugs me, and these are my two best friends in a nutshell.

“I’m very serious,” I say.

Hanna shakes her head. “I thought you hated vloggers.”

“I don’t hate them. Besides, this isn’t vlogging.”

“What is it then?”

“It’s reality programming for the online generation.”

That’s a quote from the contract we had to sign.