Copycat - Alex Lake

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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.’

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