Influence

Chapter 15

Tam regretted buying a new phone the moment she connected it to her Wi-Fi. Expecting her old phone to be having a few sleepovers in the evidence room at the police station before it was returned to her, she'd decided to use a chunk of her soon to be diminished bank account to purchase a new one. She was in the middle of importing her contacts when she made the regrettable mistake of logging onto social media.

She'd been tagged and messaged more times in the past twelve hours than she had in her entire life. Maybe some were condolences to her on the tragic loss of her boss, but, catching a word here and there, she doubted it. She put the phone down on the kitchen counter and stepped away from it like she'd caught a poisonous spider under an empty jelly jar.

The room spun. She sank to her knees below her kitchen sink, letting the faint smell of lavender dish soap sooth her frazzled nerves.

It wasn't just the police who assumed she'd murdered Goldie.

After several minutes, she forced herself up and walked towards that poisonous silicon spider, gingerly lifting it from the table. She needed to understand what was happening, even if doing so delivered a dose of venom to her veins.

She ignored her notifications for the time being. The glimpse she'd gotten was dreary enough. Instead, she scrolled to the top of the trends and there it was: Goldie's name. In memoriam. People reacted with expressions of grief and incredulity. They couldn't believe it. It must be a hoax. They posted selfies of their blurry eyes faces streaked with mascara-darkened tears.

She scrolled on passed a few RIPs, pictures of Goldie's flawless face posted along with a link to a news article with scant details surrounding the influencer's untimely demise. And then, eventually, not Goldie's face, but her own appeared. The image was her profile pic, a photo she'd taken after her most recent haircut. She'd loved how the chin-length bob framed her face, accentuating her jaw line and making her dark eyes seem deep and mysterious. She'd fancied that it made her look like one of the flappers Goldie was so fond of, a cheeky brunette starlet from the silent film era.

No one mentioned her glamorous appearance. Glitz and glamour—she didn't deserve either. No one compared her to a golden era It Girl. The post, from GoldieGirl01, was short and to the point, but it did its job.

This is the face of Goldie's killer. Tam Martin. Remember that name. If the police won't bring her to justice, we'll have to.

Venom. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, her phone tucked in her hand, out of sight. This was what women felt like in the sixteenth century when they were being accused of witchcraft for prescribing mugwort to pregnant women. She forced her hand to reveal her phone again, made herself read a couple of the post's comments. They ranged from "OMG, how do you know it's her?" to "Shit, has she been arrested?" to the simple one-word responses: Murderer, Bitch, Cunt.

Her DMs, once she'd gained the courage to click on them, were pretty much the same, random people telling her to turn herself in, to confess, to die. Stop breathing. She wasn't worth the air. She was evil for what she'd done, and no amount of suffering would be too much for her.

Tam closed out all social media apps and checked the door to her apartment to make sure it was bolted. She could never go outside now. It would be like quarantining all over again only this time, instead of a virus out to get her, it was an internet mob. They didn't need a judge or jury. They only needed the rage of their own misguided convictions.

Tam wiped sweat from her forehead. Her body burned. It would be better for her if she spontaneously combusted. When the police came to arrest her, all they'd find would be a pile of ash on top of warped plastic flipflops. They'd close the case, and everyone would be happy that Goldie's murderer had been brought to justice by an act of God.