“Ingrid,” I said, “please.”
A minute later we all stood in the kitchen, anxiously peering at the bouquet. Bell sniffed it, then flicked her tail in dismissal and stalked off.
“Why are we treating this like a bomb?” Inge said.
Tamsin had holstered her weapon, but still she scanned the apartment. “Because it’s dangerous.”
“Flowers are dangerous?”
“Black irises are.”
No mistaking it: inside the cellophane was a profusion of dark purple petals, rippling and sensuous.
So Crito had connected the dots: from Black Iris, to me, to Ingrid.
She was the real prize. An unapologetic feminist, a vocal critic of all that was wrong with modern masculinity. Jay and Inge had always loathed each other. Don’t ever let me catch you somewhere alone, he’d told her once, smiling.
Or what, you fucking creep?
Or you’ll see who’s stronger, men or women.
I’d fed her right to him.
Ingrid reached for the wrapper and I caught her hand.
“We don’t know what’s in there,” I said.
“You think some basement trolls have access to anthrax? Get real.” The plastic sang eerily as she tore it. “There’s a card.”
Tam and I traded a look. Maybe it was better Ingrid learned this way: seeing her name, her details, printed on paper. A threat in cold ink.
Inge flipped the card open and read. Then frowned, and read again.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I never meant to endanger you, Ingrid. I promise we’ll—”
“It’s not for me.”
As she passed it over, Tamsin moved to my side, too quick for me to hide it.
Men feel everything. We don’t default to silence because we’re emotionless. It’s that the feelings translate to words in a way that would terrify others. It’s not okay for me to scream right now, I’ll kill you, motherfucker, I’ll kill you, hunt you down, tie you up, hurt you every way you’ve hurt me, in every hole you have and every hole I’ll make. It’s not okay to let these words loose, even though my blood pressure is the highest in the room, my muscles the densest, the environment inside me the tightest, tensest, most unstable. So I hit something. Didn’t see what. Didn’t matter because it was only a thing, and it’s better to break things than non-things, than skin and bone.
Violence is a slippery slope. If you break things too often, it grows less satisfying. Then you move on to breaking people.
The girls stepped back as I smashed the glasses on the counter. Simple message. Five words, one name. The name I’d never wanted Tam to know.
I love watching you, Sofie.
———
Ingrid plotted the timeline. It was second nature to her—her mind worked in flowcharts and inescapable chains of logic.
TEN MONTHS AGO
? Adam’s best friend, Jay, begins calling himself “Crito” and trolling women online. Doxxing, RL harassment, etc. Leaves flower bouquet w/cryptic message each time.
FIVE MONTHS AGO
? Adam returns to Chicago.
? Laney orders Tamsin to watch Adam.
Ingrid frowned as she regarded Tam. “Your face is familiar. Have we met before?”
“Doubt it, love.”
“I know I’ve seen you somewhere.”
“Perhaps you’ve confused me for another black girl.”
Inge didn’t reply. Instead she kept writing.
TWO MONTHS AGO
? Black Iris botches mission to intimidate Crito. Crito is wounded, goes silent online.
ONE WEEK AGO
? Ingrid learns Adam is back. Laney refuses to help take down Adam.
TODAY
? Bouquet of black irises is delivered. Deadname in card.
We stared at the whiteboard. Morning had sprung on us without warning, silvery light oozing through the blinds like mercury. My pulse hammered at the inside of my skull, iron on iron. My eyes felt like embers.
“He’s after me,” I said hoarsely.
Ingrid crossed her arms. “Maybe he’s after me, and you just got caught in the cross fire.”
“No. My deadname means it’s personal.”
Tam eyed the board strangely, then darted a querulous look at Inge.
The fact that Laney had known Adam was in town before any of us—and set Tam to watch him—turned over and over in my head.
My instincts were right.
I’d seen him. I knew I’d seen him. That face in the crowd, watching me.
“They know,” I said. “Both of them. They recognized me, somehow.”
Tam frowned. “You wore a mask that night with Crito. And Adam never saw you after you—after you transitioned, right?”
In that pause, she’d pictured me as a girl. It made me a little sick.
I’d cut all contact with Adam before starting T. Ingrid and I moved to a new place. Corgan was a big campus—I wore hoodies, took night classes. My YouTube channel didn’t break a thousand subs till a year in. By then, people I’d known freshman year didn’t recognize me anymore.
I’d made her disappear in plain sight.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But they found me. They know who I am, where I live. What I’m a part of.”