Both of us turn toward Greta, who’s holding up her phone.
Leesa frowns. “What?”
“There’s…a real murder.” Greta’s voice is hoarse. My usually unruffled sister is anxious and this compounds my unease.
Greta passes her phone and, together, Leesa and I read what’s onscreen:
Gardaí are investigating the discovery of three bodies in two locations in South Dublin. A man and a woman were found dead early this morning in a house in Waterview, Cherrywood, and in a separate incident, in nearby Oakpark, Loughlinstown, the body of a woman has been found. Names have not yet been released, and gardaí cannot say if there is a link between the discoveries.
Leesa’s eyes widen. “Oh my god, a murder here in Oakpark?”
“It’s…it’s the other Oakpark—the one in Loughlinstown.” It comes out in a whisper.
Leesa is clicking and scrolling. “My god, I wonder what happened? I don’t know why death always seems worse if it’s nearby, but it does.”
Greta nods. “Of course. It’s scary when it’s close to home. Like it could happen to us.”
“And that’s…that’s obviously it.” The pieces fall into place. “Someone thinks this happened to me.”
I try to focus on the Google Alert, to make sense of it.Deep breaths. Slow down. I sit at the table and click into the message to read it properly. I can see now that the headline and the extract are from a post on MessageBoards.ie. It’s a chat site a bit like Reddit, but resolutely Irish. The posters there are regular people, not journalists.OK. OK. I let out a breath. So, this is probably erroneous speculation rather than a deliberate attempt to troll me. Someone genuinely thinks I’m dead. But why? It seems like quite a leap to assume that the woman who sent the viral message is the murder victim, just because we both live in Oakpark.
Leesa and Greta are leaning in on either side of me, reading my phone.
“So it’s a misunderstanding,” Leesa says, flopping into a chair. “Probably not deliberate, right?”
I nod. Greta is quiet, wincing slightly as she lowers herself into her seat. “I’ll text Jon,” she says. “In case he sees it and gets a shock.”
He doesn’t use MessageBoards, but she’s right, it’s safer to let himknow. And maybe when he told me to set up a Google Alert, he set one up too.
It’s just six o’clock now, and I switch on the radio so we can listen to the news. The three murders make up the first headline. The two victims in Cherrywood are not yet named, but the victim in Oakpark is. And when I hear the newscaster identify her, my skin goes cold.
7
Susan
Wednesday
“The body discovered earlier today at 26 Oakpark, Loughlinstown has been named as Savannah Holmes, a thirty-five-year-old woman who had been living in the area for two years. Gardaí say…”
The news report continues, but I don’t hear it. I’m stuck on her name.
Savannah Holmes.
“Oh my god.” My hand flies to my mouth.
“What is it?” Leesa startles. “Are you OK?”
“Savannah Holmes…”
“What—do you know her?” Leesa asks.
I’m shaking my head. I don’t know her. Not really. But still.
“Susan, what’s going on?”
Greta, visibly pale, fills her in—the packages, the address, the alter ego conversation—which now seems silly and trite.
I slide down in my chair, sagging against the back.
