Just then her cell phone rang. It was Detective Anderson.

Kate answered the phone. “Did you see it?”

“Dr. English. We traced the IP address. That email came from your Wi-Fi.”

26

Blaire could see that Kate was doing her utmost to appear calm, the only outward sign of anxiety the constant thrumming of her fingertips against each other as they sat in the living room, waiting for Anderson.

“They think I sent that email to myself, don’t they? I didn’t. You believe me, don’t you? You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?” Kate was sitting ramrod straight in the chair, now absently rubbing her hands together.

Blaire decided to take a middle road. “Of course you’re not crazy. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”

Kate looked dubious. She had a perpetually gaunt and haunted look these days. She wasn’t eating, existing on coffee and Valium. Blaire watched Kate push the food around on her plate, never bringing it to her mouth.

“I’m really, really sure it wasn’t me. It wasn’t, was it?” Kate pleaded. “How could they have traced the IP address to here?” She brought her hands up to her face, crying softly.

It didn’t matter how many assurances Blaire might try to give her—Kate was clearly second-guessing herself, believing she might actually have sent the email. Blaire was anxious for the police to arrive. She wondered if they would be able to put Kate’s mind at ease and finally figure this out.

When they heard the sound of the doorbell, Kate stood, wiping the tears from her face.

Brian ushered Anderson into the room. There was another man with him, one Blaire hadn’t seen before, though she assumed he was a colleague.

Anderson took off his hat and nodded at them. “Dr. English, Ms. Barrington.” He indicated the man who had come in with him. “This is Detective Reagan. He’s with our technical unit.”

“Hello,” Kate said, and looked expectantly at him. “Are you sure this is where that email came from?”

“There’s no mistake, ma’am,” he said. “Your home is the location of the IP address.”

She turned to Anderson. “I didn’t send it, though.”

“We know that.”

Blaire saw a look of surprised relief cross Kate’s face and waited to hear what Anderson was going to say next.

“The sender’s email address was not yours,” Reagan said.

“But––” Kate began.

“The sender’s address was K English one three four at gmail dot com. You must have glossed over the numeral one when you looked at the address.”

Kate scrambled to get her laptop from the side table and opened it. “Yes, yes. You’re right. It’s not my address.”

“Who does the account belong to?” Blaire asked him.

Anderson turned to Reagan, who said, “It’s been deactivated. There’s no way to definitively know.”