Copycat

15

Sarah was finishing a quick coffee in the break room at work when her phone rang. It was Anne, her college friend. She was due to see a patient in a few minutes, but she picked up the phone.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘How are you? I have an appointment coming up, so I can’t talk for too long.’

‘I’m good,’ Anne said. ‘Enjoying summer. It’s been lovely up here.’

‘Up here’ was Burlington, Vermont, where Anne was a high-school science teacher. She was married to her college boyfriend, Don; they’d had kids early. Melanie, who was ten, and Parker, who was eight.

‘I wish I had your holidays,’ Sarah said. ‘It must be amazing.’

‘Mel’s at her first sleep-away camp this week, and Parker’s always with his buddies, biking round the neighborhood. Don’s working, so I have a lot of alone time.’

‘God, stop. You’re making me jealous.’

‘It is nice,’ Anne said. ‘But I do miss the days when summer was me and the kids hanging out by the lake or in the backyard. It feels like they’re growing up too fast. In eight years we’ll be dropping Mel off at college. I’m already traumatized by the mere thought of it.’

‘I know. It goes so fast.’

‘Anyway, I was chatting to Toni yesterday. She paid us a visit.’

Sarah couldn’t help the small twinge of resentment that flared at the news Toni and Anne had got together without her; without even informing her. She wouldn’t have been able to go, but it would have been nice to have the option. It was stupid, she knew, but it did feel as though she had been left out.

‘Oh,’ Sarah said. ‘I spoke to her the other day.’

‘She mentioned it. She told me about the weird Facebook thing. Is everything OK?’

‘Yeah,’ Sarah said. ‘I think so. The account has gone now.’

‘Right,’ Anne said. ‘I was wondering where it was. I had a look, and I couldn’t find it.’

‘I think it may have been some kind of Facebook error,’ Sarah said. ‘They have access to so much of your data, who knows what can happen? I was going to send them a note to ask, although I’ll probably never get around to it.’ She glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘I have to go, but it was great to talk to you. I’ll call you one evening?’

‘OK. And let’s get together this summer. It’s been too long.’

‘Way too long,’ Sarah said. ‘We’ll find a date.’

She cut the connection and put her phone in her bag. As she did it buzzed. It was a text message from Carla, a friend with a son and daughter who Sarah had used to hang out with often. She didn’t see her as much since Miles and Ricky, her son, had started kindergarten; they were in different school systems so their orbits drifted apart. Still, they liked to get the kids together sometimes and arranged periodic play dates.

Hi, it read. Are you running late?

Sarah frowned. She hadn’t planned to meet Carla today. She had to see her patient, but she texted back, quickly.

For what?

The answer arrived seconds later.

The play date. I’m at your house with Ricky. No one’s here.

Sarah felt a slow churn in her stomach. The taste of the coffee soured in her mouth. She hadn’t spoken to or emailed or texted Carla in a week.

Which meant this was not a simple mix-up. It couldn’t be.

Did we plan a play date? I’m at work. Miles is at camp.

The dots signifying a reply was coming scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

Really? We emailed about it last night. You said to come at ten.

She hadn’t sent any emails the night before. She’d come back from the beach, fed the kids then curled up in front of a movie once they were in bed. And even if she had emailed Carla, she wouldn’t have arranged a play date, for the simple reason she was at work and the kids were either at camp or in day care.

She checked her phone. Nothing to Carla in the sent email folder. Which meant, unless Carla was making it up, someone else had emailed her.

Someone claiming to be Sarah.

She felt faint, dizzy. It was an effort to focus. Hands shaking, she typed a reply.

Sorry. I think I have an idea what happened. Can I see you at noon? I’ll be free for lunch then.

Sure, Carla replied. Call me.

Sarah shook her head. That wouldn’t do.

Can I see you? Sorry to be a pain, but you’ll understand.

Carla’s reply hinted at a little irritation.

I have a gym class starting soon. But I could meet around 12.20?

Sarah accepted. It would be a short lunch, but she needed to see her friend.

In the end Carla showed up at the Little Cat Café at twelve thirty. She was wearing yoga pants and a finishers’ T-shirt from the 2014 Lobsterman Triathlon. She looked – post-exercise – in a good mood.

Sarah waved at her and pointed to the cup of coffee – a skinny cappuccino – she had ordered as a peace offering. There was also a blueberry smoothie on the table.

‘Where’s Ricky?’ Sarah said. ‘I got him a smoothie. Help him get over the missed play date.’

‘He went to Logan’s house,’ Carla said. ‘Sandy’ – Logan’s mom – ‘had mentioned Logan was free, so I gave her a call.’

‘Sorry about earlier,’ Sarah said. ‘But it’s not what you think.’ She leaned forward. ‘Is there any way I could see the messages you got from me?’

Carla frowned, puzzled by the request. ‘Why? You sent them.’

‘I don’t think I did. Can I see them?’

‘Are you OK, Sarah?’

Sarah nodded. ‘Fine. But let me see and I’ll explain.’

Carla tapped her code on to the screen and scrolled through the messages. She handed the phone to Sarah.

There they were. Three messages, in a thread titled Play date?, all from Sarah Havenant. Sarah opened one and looked at the email address.

It was her name, but it wasn’t her account. It was Gmail, and Sarah used Outlook.

‘I don’t believe this,’ she said. ‘This is a fake email account.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean someone set this up and is impersonating me. My email address is Outlook, not Gmail. It’s easy to establish an account and set the name to show as whatever you want. So all you see is the name Sarah Havenant, and unless you bother to look at the address you wouldn’t know it wasn’t from me.’

Carla shook her head. ‘So you’re saying someone set up an email account in your name so they could fake a play date? So they could piss me off? They must have known you’d find out.’

‘I don’t think they minded getting caught,’ Sarah said. She was feeling very calm, almost like she was observing herself. It was a form of shock, she realized, her body’s way of stopping her going into a full-on panic. ‘I think getting caught was the point. This is not the first time this has happened.’

‘Are you kidding? What’s been going on?’

‘There was a Facebook account,’ Sarah murmured. ‘I thought it had gone away.’

‘What kind of Facebook account? What’s wrong with a Facebook account?’

‘It was a fake one,’ Sarah said. ‘In my name. With photos of me and Ben and the kids and the house. Recent ones.’ She looked at Carla, blinking. ‘Someone’s fucking with me, Carla. I don’t know why, and I’m scared.’ She pushed her coffee across the table. ‘Very scared.’

‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ Carla said. ‘Just a joke or …’ she paused, at a loss for words, then finished, limply. ‘Or something.’

Sarah didn’t reply. She looked around the Little Cat Café. There were couples, young women with laptops, college-age boys with books and iPads. Was it one of them? Was it someone who was here, now, in the café?

‘Hey,’ Carla said. ‘I need the bathroom. I’ll be right back.’

Sarah watched her walk across the room. It was as though she couldn’t wait to get away from her, as though she thought Sarah was contaminated, dangerous, spoiled goods. Well, when she got back, Sarah would tell her she had to be back in the office, release her from her obligations.

A few minutes later the bathroom door opened and Carla came out. Her face – summer-tanned when she went in – was chalk white.

She walked over, her phone in her hand.

‘Did you …’ she said. ‘Did you send this while I was in the bathroom?’

‘No,’ Sarah said. ‘I didn’t send anything. What is it?’

She handed her phone to Sarah.

There was another message in the thread. Another message from Sarah Havenant.

Where were you? Miles was disappointed you didn’t show up.

‘He’s at camp,’ Sarah said. For some reason – perhaps, she thought, to maintain her grip on reality – it was important to her to state the facts. ‘Miles is at camp.’

‘This is fucking weird,’ Carla said, her voice loud enough that a few other customers glanced at her. She lowered her tone and stared at Sarah. ‘Very fucking weird.’ She looked at Sarah. ‘Should I reply?’

‘No,’ Sarah said, quickly. ‘No. There’s nothing to reply to.’ She hesitated. ‘This isn’t a message to you, Carla. It’s a message for me. It’s a message to let me know this isn’t over, after all.’

‘Should I delete it?’

Sarah shook her head. ‘No. Would you forward it to me? Thanks. I have to go. I need to call Ben.’

16

The worst thing about this was that it was everywhere, and it was nonstop.

When she was twelve, Sarah had drawn the attention – for some reason she still did not understand – of a girl, Donna, in the year above her at Junior High. Donna had made her life a misery; she was much more physically developed than the rest of her class and everyone, boys included, was terrified of her, so when she cornered Sarah at break time and explained to her why she was a worthless piece of shit and a slut – Slutty Sarah, she called her, a name which Sarah did not even fully understand – then punched and kicked her, no one did anything to stop her.

Although even if they’d wanted to they couldn’t have: the arrival of Donna was like a shark showing up among a bunch of swimmers – everyone’s first thought was to hope it wasn’t going to choose them as its prey, then, once it hadn’t, their main concern was to get out of the water.

So Sarah did the only thing she could. She watched out for Donna and, if she saw her – at school or out in the neighborhood – she fled. It was simple: when the threat showed up, she did her best to get away. Eventually, Donna forgot about her and life went back to normal.

Ironically, Donna was still part of her life. Her former tormentor was now a patient of hers who had chronic GI problems, but despite the fact Sarah was now thirty-eight and a mother of three and a successful physician, she still felt a tiny flutter of panic – run, it said, run – when she opened the door to the examining room and saw Donna sitting there.

This, though, was different. The threat from Donna was easy to identify: no Donna, no threat. But this – it could come from anywhere. An email, a Facebook message, a phone call: she was constantly waiting for a message from someone claiming to be her. Claiming to be Sarah Havenant.

Worse, she had no idea who it was, or what they wanted. Was it simply a latter-day Donna, getting kicks from causing other people pain? Or was it more sinister? She didn’t know, didn’t have any way of knowing, and she felt unmoored by the constant churning of her thoughts.

She stopped at Jean’s house on her way back from work. In the kitchen, Jean and the kids were making dinner. Daniel was washing carrots and passing them to her so she could chop them. Paul was tidying up.

‘I don’t know how you do it,’ Sarah said. ‘My kids would be causing chaos. Yours are so helpful.’

‘Great parenting,’ Jean said, and shrugged. ‘Or I just got lucky.’

‘Well, if you have any tips, please pass them on.’ Sarah caught her friend’s eye. ‘Got a minute?’

‘Sure.’ Jean put the knife down and walked into the living room. ‘What’s up?’

Sarah pursed her lips. ‘It happened again.’

‘The Facebook thing?’

Sarah nodded. ‘But not Facebook this time. An email. To Carla, arranging a play date. Carla showed up at my house but – of course – there was no one there. So she texted me.’

‘Holy shit,’ Jean said.

‘I know,’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t know what to do. When it was just the Facebook thing it seemed’ – she paused – ‘it seemed like it might be harmless. Some online, virtual stuff. But this is more serious. It’s real. And it’s here. It’s my friends, showing up at my house.’ She shuddered. ‘It’s so personal.’

‘It does seem to be,’ Jean said. ‘Which is why I think you should call the cops. Talk to them. They might know what to do.’ She tapped her fingers on the cutting board. ‘I’d ask them if they think there’s any threat. And if there is, you might want to think about the kids.’

The kids. Her kids. The idea that this might affect them was unbearable. Sarah’s heart rate increased and she felt dizzy. Her vision blurred, and she leaned against the wall. She took a deep breath, then another, then another.

‘Are you OK?’ Jean said.

‘I need to calm down,’ Sarah said. ‘I haven’t had a panic attack for a couple of years, but all this worry is bringing them back. I nearly had one the other day.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘God, this is the last thing I need.’

‘I’m not surprised you’re having them again,’ Jean said. ‘I would be. But you should definitely talk to the cops. It’ll make you feel better.’

Ian Molyneux – Lieutenant in Barrow PD and high-school friend of Sarah’s – arrived shortly after 8 p.m.

Sarah opened the door and led him into the living room. She pointed to an armchair.

‘Take a seat,’ she said. ‘Good to see you. Beer?’

‘Since I’m off-duty,’ Ian said. ‘Why not?’

Ben came into the room. ‘I’ll get them,’ he said. ‘IPA OK, Ian?’

‘Perfect.’ He looked at Sarah. ‘So,’ he said. ‘You mentioned there was a problem you wanted to talk about?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s kind of unusual. I was wondering whether you would have any advice.’

‘I might,’ Ian said. ‘Try me.’

Sarah outlined what had happened, from the Facebook posts to the fake emails to Carla. As she was finishing, Ben came in with three bottles of IPA.

‘Thanks,’ Ian said, taking a swig from the bottle, then setting it down on the table in front of him. ‘It is pretty unusual,’ he said. ‘I can’t say I’ve ever come across anything quite like it.’ He paused. ‘The closest thing would be a stalker, or an online troll abusing you. We can deal with both of those – it’s not necessarily easy, but there are things we can do. Court orders restricting someone from coming within five hundred feet of you, that kind of thing. If someone’s abusing you online, you can report it to the Internet company, or block them. And mostly cyber abuse turns out to be some keyboard warrior working out his or her frustration at their shitty lives. They’re happy to abuse people behind the safety of their screen, but if they met their target face to face they’d run a mile, although from time to time it can be more serious.’ He paused for another sip. ‘The problem is that this is different. We don’t know who’s doing it.’

‘Right,’ Ben replied. ‘The only name we have is Sarah Havenant, which isn’t really much help. It could be anyone doing this, which makes it hard to deal with.’

Ian looked at Sarah. ‘Do you have any ideas who it might be? Think who would want to do it. And then who would be able to do it.’

‘I tried,’ Sarah said. ‘But I can’t think of who would want to do this. And then there’s the practicality. No one was at all of the places in the photos. At least, I don’t think there was anyone.’

Ben sat forward. ‘One question we should ask is cui bono? Who benefits? Who profits? When there’s not an obvious motive for an action, figuring out who benefits from it might reveal who’s behind it.’

Sarah thought for a few moments. Who did benefit? No one was getting richer. No one was getting anything, other than her, who was getting freaked out. So the question was, who would want to freak her out?

And she couldn’t think of anybody.

‘Has anything changed recently?’ Ian said. ‘At work? New colleagues?’

Sarah shook her head. ‘Apart from the return of Rachel Little, nothing’s new.’

Ian frowned. ‘Rachel Little from high school?’

‘The same. She was out west, and now she’s back. In fact, it was her who told me about the Facebook profile.’

‘Hmm,’ Ian said. ‘Interesting.’

‘You think it could be her?’ Ben said. ‘She seemed harmless enough when I met her.’

‘She was a bit of an oddball, back in the day,’ Ian said.

‘She’s changed,’ Sarah said. ‘Grown up. Like all of us.’

‘It could be her,’ Ian said. ‘It’s not obvious why she would suddenly be doing this, twenty years after we last saw her, but it is a coincidence that she happens to return right when this is going on.’ He shrugged. ‘Coincidences happen, though.’

‘Is there anything you can do?’

‘I can look her up,’ Ian replied. ‘See if there’s anything unusual. I’ll let you know, if there is.’

‘And what should we be doing?’ Ben said. ‘Anything specific?’

‘Be vigilant,’ Ian said. ‘Sarah – if you go somewhere alone, make sure Ben or someone else knows so they can check you got there. Lock your doors and windows at night.’

‘And the kids?’ Sarah said. It was hard to believe she was having to question whether the safety of their children was in any way compromised. ‘Miles and Faye are in camp. Kim’s at day care.’

‘You could mention this to the camp leader and ask them to keep an eye on the kids. Likewise at day care. But they should have security practices around supervision and pickup.’

‘You don’t think we should pull them out?’ Ben said.

‘You could,’ Ian replied. ‘That’s a matter for you.’

‘But then what?’ Sarah said. ‘They’re stuck in the house all day while their buddies are out doing stuff. And we have to work. We’d need a small army of babysitters.’

‘Who are probably less qualified than the professionals to take care of them,’ Ian said. ‘If there was a threat to your kids, I don’t think they’d be particularly safe in the care of a bored teenager.’

‘Then we leave them in,’ Ben said. ‘For now. And you’ll look into Rachel, correct?’

‘Correct,’ Ian said, and got to his feet. ‘Thanks for the beer. I’ll inform the station. If you call for some reason, they’ll know there’s been something going on. And good luck.’

When Ian had left, Ben sat next to Sarah on the couch. He put his arm around her and pulled her close to him. She pressed her cheek against his chest and closed her eyes. She loved Ben in a way which she had not understood was possible until she had met him; she’d had a boyfriend in high school and then a couple in college who she had thought she was in love with – and maybe she was, in a way – but she had felt apart from them, in some important sense. She had liked them, admired them, had great, passionate sex with them, but she had always known she could live without them.

With Ben it was different. It wasn’t that he was better than them, necessarily – no doubt they were loving, responsible fathers and husbands themselves – but she and Ben fitted. They’d met and clicked, right away. They worked. They were happier together than apart: it was, in many ways, as simple as that.

And the feeling had never gone away. There was a strange paradox at the heart of it: she felt totally comfortable with him, trusted he loved her whatever she did, yet at the same time she still wanted to impress him, still wanted to show him she was a strong and intelligent and beautiful woman who merited his ongoing love and attention. She didn’t resent the feeling, because she didn’t think she had to do it. He made it clear he loved her whatever – even when she was an exhausted new mom screaming at him because she was scared and tired and lost and he was there so he was the one she was going to take it out on, or when she’d had a bad day and her nasty side – and she did have a nasty side – was on full display – she never felt his love for her was at risk, because she knew he felt the same way she did: they were lucky they had found each other, and when you got lucky you made sure you didn’t waste it.

And right now she needed the man she loved more than ever.

‘We’ll work this out,’ Ben said. He was unsmiling. ‘And when we do, whoever did this will regret it.’

It was unusual for him to be angry; normally he was more sanguine. When they were younger – it didn’t happen so often now – and other guys chatted her up at bars, or weddings, or parties, he didn’t get mad, didn’t threaten them or glare at them. He left her to deal with it, and, if she mentioned it, he smiled and said other guys could talk to her all they wanted. He was the one going home with her. He was the one who’d be having breakfast with her. He was the one who bought her the sexy underwear she was wearing and who would be taking it off in the not too distant future. At most – if he felt she was uncomfortable – he would wander over, and introduce himself. Shake the guy’s hand, then apologize for interrupting, and tell her the mother-of-the-bride wanted to talk to her, or he wanted to introduce her to a work colleague who was about to leave, or say their taxi had arrived and it was time to go. She loved his confidence, his assumption that his position was not threatened by these half-drunk sleazeballs on the prowl at parties.

She’d asked him once, after a glass of wine too many, What if it wasn’t a sleazeball, but some handsome, charming guy? Would you be threatened then?

He’d laughed. I’d be fine. If you were interested in handsome, charming men you wouldn’t be with me. But you are with me. So I assume you’re interested in guys who are like me. And I’m the person who’s most like me that I know. So – logically – you’re never going to find someone more like me than me, which means I have nothing to worry about.

She shifted closer to him on the couch.

‘How will we find them?’ she said. ‘I have nowhere to start.’

‘I was thinking about that. It has to be someone you know. I mean, in theory it could be a complete stranger, but I don’t see how. And if it is someone you know then maybe we can work it out. Or narrow it down.’

‘Right,’ Sarah said. ‘I suppose. But I’ve been trying, and getting nowhere.’

‘What if you missed someone? What about an ex-boyfriend? One of them might hold a grudge.’

‘But why now?’

‘Who knows? Maybe they got divorced. Or developed a drug problem. Or decided to fuck with you. What about the guy you dated in college? He was a bit intense, as I recall.’

‘Matt?’

‘I think so. The one who tried to sabotage our wedding.’

She’d forgotten about him. She smiled, although it hadn’t been funny at the time. She’d dated a guy from Cape Cod, Matt Landay, for a semester in her sophomore year of college. He was not really her type – a jock with rich parents and a frat boy attitude to match – but there had been some chemistry between them, and in the spirit of youthful experimentation, she had started a relationship with him. He was only the second man she had slept with, and they had a lot of sex, but by the time the semester ended she was bored of him. She didn’t bother breaking it off; she just went home for the summer and, in the days before cell phones and text messages, forgot about him.