Did you see the Reddit post???
Murderers like the podcast?!
You HAVE to address this in the next episode!
Is it true? Is there a connection to the books you talked about?
Scarlett, please respond!!
“What the hell…” I trail off, scrolling through the increasingly frantic messages. Some are from listeners asking if I’ve seen the post, others are full of speculation about recent murders, and some are disturbingly accusatory:
This is your fault. You inspired a psycho.
What are you hiding?!
Are you working with the killer?
My fingers tremble as I open the podcast app, my heart still racing. I tap on the podcast, expecting to see the usual stats—modest numbers, enough to keep it alive, but nothing earth-shattering.
But when the analytics load, my jaw drops.
The latest episode:432,897 listens.
The one before that:389,452 listens.
Even episodes from months ago—ones that barely broke ten thousand before—are suddenly soaring. I swipe through the stats, my jaw unhinging farther with every passing second. Comments are flooding in, too, faster than I can scroll.
“Holy crap.” I stare at the numbers like they might vanish if I blink too hard. For a fleeting moment, my chest swells with pride. The podcast has blown up. After years of late nights, endless editing, and pouring my heart into this project, it’s finally happening. People are listening. They care.
But the rush of euphoria is short-lived.
The spike isn’t because I’m good at what I do. It’s because someone out there—somewhere—is using my words, my passion, as inspiration for unspeakable acts.
My stomach churns as the thrill curdles into guilt, thick and heavy. I swipe to the comments, desperate for something,anything, that might make this feel less awful.
Scarlett, your podcast is incredible. Do you think the killer listens to it?
You’re so insightful. Do you have a theory about the murderer?
I found your podcast after hearing about the murders. Obsessed already!
Obsessed.
The numbers don’t feel like success.
They feel like a noose tightening around my neck.
I walk up the long, winding path to the front door, every step feeling like I’m inching closer to the end of a plank, teetering on the brink of falling into dark, unsafe waters. I haven’t seen Grandma and Grandpa since Ethan’s birthday dinner last year, when we kept things light and surface level. There won’t be any of that today.
I am going todemandto know what’s happening with Ethan—what’s this Virginia thing he’s brought up?—and my grandmother doesn’t deal well with demands.
At least a bucket of coffee and several gallons of water later, I’m fully recovered from my hangover.
With an invigorating breath, I raise my hand to knock on the heavy wooden doors, ready to throw myself to the sharks. A moment later, my grandparents’ maid opens the door.
“Scarlett? Mr. and Mrs. Moore didn’t say they were expecting company.”
“They’re not. I, uh, I was wondering if I could talk to them.”
