I check the time. Dad went out to dinner with a colleague. Should I call him to come home? I want to, but he rarely goes out. I know I come first, but he’s due back within the hour. I can wait, right? I’ll give it a few more minutes, then decide.

I return to Twitter. For the hundredth time, I tell myself to shut down my laptop. But I have this obsessive sick need to know.

Somewhere, there’s a monster disguised as a human being who wants to put a bullet into our brains.

Dead. It reverberates in my head like a plucked wire. Dead.

Goose bumps rise on my arms. Gripped with fear, I stare out the breakfast nook bay window and scan the night, jumping at every shifting shadow. I close the curtains, grab my laptop off the table, and slide to the floor.

Who posted these comments? Someone wearing a white sheet and a hood? Or maybe the white supremacists I saw on TV, marching in Charlottesville, chanting, “Jews will not replace us.” It’s easier to believe it’s a man or a woman far away, but it could be someone right here in Riviere.

I shudder. What if these people know where we live? I locked the doors, right? I set my laptop aside and crawl across the kitchen floor, making sure to stay way below the sightline of the bay window. Reaching up, I turn the stairwell doorknob and peek through the crack. I race down the stairs, yank on the door. Locked. Of course it’s locked.

I dash from window to window, pulling down shades, drawing curtains. I run back to the kitchen, grab my phone, laptop, a quart of chocolate fudge brownie ice cream, and a spoon.

Safe in my room, I refresh the screen. There are now 132 comments. Lissa had said the article might garner attention. But I never imagined this! I call Cade. It goes right to voicemail. Arrgh! Why can’t he ever leave his phone on?

Should I call the inn? I doubt he even knows that the article was published. It wasn’t supposed to post until tomorrow. Oh God. Did he tell his parents? I hope he told his parents.

My phone rings. But it’s not Cade. My heartbeat kicks up a notch. It’s my neighbor: Police Officer Shawn Sullivan.

After I tell him what’s transpired, he says, “As a precaution, I’ll have the department keep an eye on things. But I really don’t think there’s anything to worry about. Try and get some sleep.”

Easier said than done.

Chapter 30: Heather Jameson

Heather waits until her parents leave for the evening before shutting herself in the bathroom with the bag of supplies she’d hidden in her bedroom closet. She knows they’ll be furious and deeply disappointed.