At least I hoped I could. The camera on my laptop had been covered up ever since Michael purged every electronic camera and listening device from our home. And surely my IP address wouldn’t out my identity. My finger hovered, but I didn’t enter the Sugar Land forum. There was a reason I’d gone to the library first. Books were safe, static like a painting in a frame. What lived on the internet was a dangerous mix of investigative photography and in-your-face performance art. It had taken me so long to scrape the stench of internet troll off my soul. Was I strong enough to dive back in?

My lips tightened. I needed to know what was out there. I clicked the link and opened the discussion about Brady.

The first post was an overview, bare bones. A man was arrested in Sugar Land on charges of homicide. A female body was found in his home. He’s being held in conjunction with several other missing persons. His wife has been missing since last week.

Another poster had linked to an online news story, and I clicked through. First the article stated that Brady was in custody, that he’d been charged but hadn’t confessed. Then came a series of quotes from people who had worked with him, the rotating crew of men who had staffed those trucks and done roofing, wiring, plumbing, HVAC, windshield repair, locksmithing. A good boss. Really skilled. Liked to joke around.

And then I read about the bodies.

Already they were linking Brady to previously unsolved deaths. A young woman, younger than my younger sister, found in pieces in the soft soil at the edge of the Brazos River. Tortured, then dismembered, just like Brady had done in front of Michael. Another, a Mexican citizen in his forties, had been slaughtered in the “Killing Fields” off Calder Road in League City, left where so many others had been killed since the seventies. How had I not known that the site of this many murders was less than an hour from my front door?

Back in the forums, posters were speculating about other possible victims, including the missing drivers of those abandoned cars. And I wondered how many bodies might be stashed where they’d never be discovered—under the slab foundation of a house in our very neighborhood? In a bayou I drove over on my way to H-E-B for groceries?

Scanning the page, I saw it hadn’t taken long for people to jump to conclusions about me.

Turned in by a neighbor. The guy was there for hours, was he helping? Involved?

Do you think the wife was involved?

Which wife? The one that’s missing or the one that drove her husband to the police station?

Maybe they wanted out, so they turned Brady in.