Copycat

by Hannah Jayne

  “And you posted a story in the school newspaper as well about”—Officer Olson flipped back in her notebook—“a popular girl who was lured by the school’s ‘nice girl,’ who drowned her, did you not?”

  Morton Gaines’s eyes were wide, his lips pressed together hard.

  “How did you know about that? I post anonymously.”

  “Lady A? We talked to the journalism teacher.”

  “They’re just stories.”

  Addie could see her father swallow hard, his Adam’s apple doing a slow bob. “Are you accusing my daughter of murder because she has a vivid imagination?”

  Officer Olson shook her head and Chadwick stepped forward, a tight smile on her lips. “We’re just asking some questions, sir.”

  “Well then, I think you’re done.”

  Olson and Chadwick shared another glance, this one less obvious. Something in Addie’s chest tightened and she shifted her weight. “Um, I really should get inside and do my homework.”

  She expected Olson or Chadwick to tell her no, that they weren’t finished. She expected them to pin her with a glare or worse yet, slap handcuffs on her wrists and drag her to jail.

  “No problem.” Officer Olson reached into her pocket and handed Addie a business card that her father snatched away. “If you think of anything, please don’t hesitate to call us.” She offered a dazzling smile that send a chill down Addie’s spine.

  Addie may have watched the officers get back in their car and drive away. She couldn’t remember. Her head was buzzing, her lips numb as she trudged to the dining room table and sat down. Her father sat across from her and knitted his hands in front of him.

  “Why do you write those stories, Addison?”

  Addie gaped. “Do you think I had something to do with Lydia’s murder because of my stories?”

  He cocked his head, a small puff of air escaping his lips. “That’s a far stretch, Addison.”

  “Is it? The police don’t seem to think so.”

  “The police are just trying to scare you.”

  Addie laid her head on the table. “It worked.”

  “The stories?”

  “They’re just for fun, Dad. They don’t mean anything.” He didn’t answer and Addie pressed on. “I’m not depressed or obsessed with death or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. I like to write stories. I like to write and read stories where people die because they’re scary and sometimes it’s fun to be scared when you’re in control, you know?”

  But she was definitely not in control now.

  “Cut out the site and stop with the stories. Right now, they’re just in bad taste.”

  “Dad—”

  “Just do it, Addie.” He stood up and turned his back on her. Conversation effectively over.

  Twenty-Six

  Maya was blowing up Addie’s phone. She had called three times when Addie and her father were talking to the police, and twice since then. Finally, Addie picked up.

  “My God, I thought you were dead in some ditch somewhere.”

  Addie didn’t answer.

  “I’m sorry, that came out way wrong. Are you okay?”

  “The police were here.”

  There was a pause on Maya’s end of the phone, and Addie could picture her best friend pinching her upper lip. “I know. I heard my dad on the phone. Is everything okay?”

  “Does your dad think I had something to do with this?”

  “No. No way. Of course not. I don’t think so. Why?”

  “The police know about GapLakeLove and the fanfic.”

  Maya was silent again and then, “So?”

  “So I think they think that I could be a murderer because I wrote them.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. First of all, how do they even know it’s you? You go by Lady A. Not the most original nom de plum—”

  “Plume.”

  “Whatever. Not the most original one of those ever, but still.”

  “Mr. Moreau told them.”

  “But why you? Why not some other rabid fan or, like, R. J. Rosen himself?”

  “They probably don’t even know who R. J. Rosen is. No one does. And he doesn’t even live around here.”

  Does he?

  Heat pricked out all over Addison, beating down the back of her neck. She was exposed; she felt eyes on her. “I don’t know anything about R. J. Rosen.”

  “No one does.”

  “No, but I really don’t. I…I don’t even think the person emailing me is R. J. Rosen. I think it’s a copycat.”

  Maya’s voice was flat. “He emails you. Send him a questionnaire. Oh, shit.”

  “What?”

  “What if R. J. Rosen isn’t as much of a mystery as we think?”

  Addie scratched her forehead. “I’m listening.”

  “What if he’s someone we know, Adds? Someone we see every day even.”

  “Like who?”

  “Mr. Moreau.”

  Addie snorted. “Mr. Moreau? Seriously?”

  “Lot’s of people live double lives, Addie.”

  “Yeah, but like a mild-mannered nursery school teacher slash internet porn star, not a multimillion-book-selling author slash teacher who gets off on catching prepositional phrases.”

  “Just think about it. It kind of lines up. He kills Lydia Stevensen for some sick and twisted bookish reason or cuz, you know, teachers go off the deep end. Or because he needed more stuff for his plot or whatever.”

  “Get on with it.”

  “He kills her, then when the police are closing in, he throws them a perfect suspect: his prize student, who just happens to write gnarly, death-filled fan fiction.”

  “I’m not his prize student.”

  Maya sighed. “Big picture, Addie.”

  Addie gnawed on Maya’s theory. “I don’t know. That just seems really weird. And far-fetched. And ridiculous.”

  “But you didn’t say implausible.”

  “Hang up, Maya.”

  Addie changed into her pajamas and scrubbed her face, trying to wash off the debris of the day—of the week. Lydia, the police at her door, Maya’s crazy Mr. Moreau theory, and shutting down her blog. It was all too much for her, a humming cacophony at the base of her spine making her head pound and her eye twitch. She wanted to brush the whole thing off and go to bed. Her phone pinged, the tone the sound of a fat rock dropping into a lake.

  Someone had sent her an email through her blog site.

  Addie’s heart thudded in her throat. It was cold in her bedroom, the breeze outside lifting the curtains, but she was sweating. She slid her thumb over the alert, staring at it a full minute, mouth dry, before reading. A message from R. J. Rosen was the first on her list.

  SUBJECT: Cover reveal

  Addie clicked on the message even as her stomach dropped.

  Hi Addie—

  Attached please find a preview of the cover of the newest Gap Lake book! I hope you like it…

  Addie licked her lips and hit the download button, her stomach turning somersaults. She was going to get to see the new Gap Lake cover! She couldn’t believe her luck.

  Then she couldn’t believe her eyes.

  The cover image was a photograph, barely tinged with color.

  A blond, crumpled over a desk. Hair dripping. Bare feet covered in mud.

  “No.”

  Addie recognized the room. She recognized the girl on the desk.

  She recognized the girl looking on, terrified.

  It was her.

  “What? This can’t be—no!”

  Maya was in the picture too, eyes wide, cell phone by her side.

  LIFE IMITATES ART was scrawled across the top of the photograph.

  A new message popped up on Addie’s screen: TheRealRJRosen wou
ld like to talk. Are you available?

  Addie’s cursor hovered over the Decline box. But she accepted.

  TheRealRJRosen:

  Hello, Addie.

  AddieGaines:

  What the hell was that? That’s not a cover, that’s a picture. Where the hell did you get it? Who are you???? Is this some fucking joke???

  TheRealRJRosen:

  Are you laughing?

  Addie sucked in a breath so sharp she thought it would pierce her lungs and waited, her pulse ratcheting up. The wind outside grew, rattling her open windows and snatching the curtains. She got up and slammed the window shut, glancing down into Colton’s room. It was empty and dark, only the ominous glow from his computer visible. There was a ping from her machine.

  AddieGaines:

  No. This is horrible. You’re horrible. I’m not doing anything for you anymore. Who even are you???

  TheRealRJRosen:

  You promised.

  Something heavy and dark settled in Addie’s gut. Her saliva soured and the words wobbled in front of her eyes. She was crying. A girl had died, she was crying, and this asshole was trying to make her feel guilty.

  AddieGaines:

  I’m done.

  TheRealRJRosen:

  We had a deal. You need to follow through. Follow-through is important. Don’t you know that, Addison? Follow-through means everything.

  Anger surged through her.

  AddieGaines:

  I said I’m done.

  TheRealRJRosen:

  I decide when we’re done.

  AddieGaines:

  I’m not posting that cover. It’s horrible.

  TheRealRJRosen:

  This cover?

  Suddenly, Addie’s screen exploded as file after file opened. They were all basically the same, all artwork and text from the Life Imitates Art cover, but each one was slightly nuanced—a different color, a different angle.

  AddieGaines:

  I’m not talking to you anymore.

  All the covers disappeared from her screen and Addie stared at the throbbing cursor. A pause that lasted an eternity. Then:

  TheRealRJRosen:

  We don’t have to talk. Post or else.

  AddieGaines:

  Or else what?

  TheRealRJRosen:

  :)

  AddieGaines:

  NO. I’m done.

  TheRealRJRosen:

  We’re just getting started.

  Addie gritted her teeth, the anger like a white-hot flame in her gut.

  AddieGaines:

  No. We’re done. I’m done. Stop talking to me.

  TheRealRJRosen:

  Can’t. The story is just getting good.

  Addie slammed shut her laptop and shoved it under the bed. She was shaking, mad and terrified. Who was this person and why wouldn’t he leave her alone? She jumped off the bed, pacing, pulling on her hair.

  She would call the police.

  She would call the police and the police would—what? They already suspected her of murder. Suddenly, her insides turned to jelly. She sunk down on the carpet and pulled her knees to her chest, shaking so hard her teeth were chattering. She was a suspect in a murder case because she wrote like her favorite author.

  The story is just getting good.

  Bile itched at the back of her throat. It was like a sick book. Her life—her normal, boring life—was like a Gap Lake Mystery. She was being stalked by a madman, a girl was dead, and…what was next?

  Twenty-Seven

  Addie wasn’t sure how she slept. She knew she did, because she woke up in her bed, covers to her chin. She was still fully dressed and every inch of her body ached. Her head throbbed and her eyes were caked with goo that let her know that she had cried herself to sleep. She didn’t want to think about what had happened, didn’t want to think about R. J. Rosen or GapLakeLove or the fact that the police—the police—had come to her house and nearly accused her of murder.

  No, Addie tried to correct herself, tried to console herself, they were just asking questions. She tried to steel herself, tried to breathe deeply, but dread held her down, settling on her chest like a two-ton weight.

  “Addie, honey, you up?” He father poked his head through her door with a lopsided grin. “Louisa is downstairs. She made French toast.”

  Addie sniffed at the air. It was heady with cinnamon and vanilla, and she could hear the faint sound of a sizzling pan, of Louisa humming something as she flipped. “I don’t feel so well, Dad.”

  The smile on Morton Gaines’s face slipped and he stepped into Addie’s room, pressing a cool palm against her forehead. “You okay, sweet cakes?”

  Addie’s stomach roiled and she rolled to one side, pressing her palms against her eyes. “Don’t call me sweet cakes when I feel this barfy. Okay, Dad?”

  “You could stay home. You could stay here today with Louisa, but you are going to have to go back to school eventually. And it’s not like you did anything wrong.”

  Addie wanted to shrink down deeper into the covers. She wanted to clench her eyes closed and fall asleep, to drift off and wake up years from now when all of this was a distant memory, when Lydia Stevenson’s real killer would be caught and no one would remember Addie’s name—or Spencer’s.

  “I know that,” she said in a low, strained voice.

  “I should have stepped in the second I saw the police on our front porch.”

  Addie flashed back to Officers Chadwick and Olson. They were actually decent. Then she thought back to Maya’s dad and the way he looked her up and down for the first time ever, like he was scrutinizing her, like he was sizing her up against the criminals he usually dealt with. Against the murderers he usually dealt with.

  “No one believes you have anything to do with this, Addie.”

  “They want me to shut down my blog. You want me to shut it down.”

  Morton Gaines blinked. “I do. It’s in bad taste, honey, especially now. How do you think it looks?”

  Addie pushed herself to sitting. “What does it matter how it looks if I didn’t have anything to do with Lydia’s murder?”

  “Kids could read it, get ideas…”

  “Are you kidding? Do you really think that happens? Some kid reads some fan fiction and goes out and murders someone?”

  Her father patted the covers softly. “Addie, calm down. I’m just telling you—how things look shouldn’t be an issue and in a perfect world they wouldn’t. But here we are.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “It means you’re going to shut it down.”

  “So that’s it?”

  “Yes.” Her father was on his feet so fast the bed wobbled. He clapped once, then smiled. “So how about that French toast?”

  Addie wanted to force a smile. She wanted to believe that dropping the blog would make everything okay, but it didn’t. The police still thought she had something to do with Lydia’s murder. People in town believed that R. J. Rosen’s books led someone to a copycat kill. And then there was R. J. Rosen himself…

  Life imitates art.

  Book four opened with Jordan still in bed while the police scoured Gap Lake for Crystal Lanier’s killer.

  Where Jordan herself was a sitting duck.

  Addie’s mind reeled. On page 17 Jordan was holed up in bed drinking tea and binge-watching Dance Moms. By page 41 she was in the clutches of a sadistic killer.

  The story is just getting good.

  Addie kicked off her blankets and pressed her bare feet into the carpet.

  She wasn’t going to be a sitting duck. She scrutinized her closet, passing by the cache of frilly things that Maya had talked her into, and instead going for what was easy, what was fast—what she could run in. She grabbed jeans and a T-shirt, tucking in the shirt s
o no one could grab her from behind. She slipped into sneakers and started gathering her hair into a ponytail, then paused. She remembered the instructor on some YouTube channel telling her that ponytails were like handles to pervs—easy to grab. She smoothed her hair, tucking it behind her ears. She threw a few air punches, bobbing and weaving like she’d seen on TV. On a whim she tossed in a roundhouse kick, got her sneaker stuck in the curtains, and brought the whole thing down, curtain, rod, and her entire body crashing to the floor.

  She wasn’t exactly a kick-ass heroine.

  She took the stairs two at a time, bouncing gently on the foot that was stuck in the curtains.

  “Well, you look chipper all of a sudden.” Her father was sitting at the head of the table, leaning slightly back while Louisa heaped his plate with French toast. The smell—usually mouthwatering to Addie—turned her sour stomach.

  “I’m feeling a little bit better.”

  Louisa pulled out a chair and started to fix Addie a plate. “No, thanks, Louisa. I’m just going to have an apple.” Addie snatched one from the bowl on the counter and turned on her heel before either her father or Louisa could stop her.

  She was on the front porch before she stopped talking, before her heart could register a normal pace.

  “Hey, Addie.”

  She whirled, blinked, and Spencer grinned. “Sorry. It seems like I’m always freaking you out.”

  Addie shook her head, forced a smile. “I’m always a little freaky lately.” Her cheeks burned a fierce red. “That came out wrong. Really, really wrong.”

  She expected Spencer to say something salacious or annoying; Colton would have.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I was just…” He thumbed over his shoulder toward his car, parked in Colton’s driveway.

  “Oh, that’s right. Your mom is Colton’s mom’s pusher.”

  Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. “What was that?”

  “Colton told me. Your mom sells leggings and stuff? He just called her…and your mom…” Addie could feel the heat creep over the tops of her ears. She knew she was blushing a fierce red, probably sweating satellites under her arms. “Sorry, this is really awkward. You have every right to be here.”