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to be. But when the realization finally kicks in that I’m lucid, I swipe my tablet from the covers, my eyes focusing on the one-sentence message from a user named Rebel_W.
    I know who you are.
    I panic—so much, so quickly that the first thing I think to do is shut off the screen of my tablet. I take a deep breath, my shaking hands gripping the device.
    Maybe I imagined it.
    I tap the sleep button and the screen illuminates. I have a new message.
    There isn’t much time, Evalyn. I have information pertaining to your case . . . information that will get you off the hook. Meet me in New York in an hour and a half at a bar in Midtown called Cherry’s and I’ll let you in on the truth.
    The truth. The truth? How does this stranger know it’s me? I think of technology and how little I know. If this person knows who I am, does that mean that they can track down my location in Pennsylvania? It’s clear that they already know how close I am to New York City. A thirty-minute car drive will get me to the station, and a train will zip me right to the neighborhood of the bar. His estimation is almost precise.
    There’s nothing I can do about it now. I’m already dead in the water.
    How can I trust you?
I type back.
    I send, and then I wait for a response.
    I know where you are
, the stranger says.
If you don’t come to me, then I’ll have to come to you.
    Panic unfurls in my stomach. Rebel_W is full of shit.
    “You’re full of shit,” I whisper.
    And, as if Rebel_W heard me:
    Or I could just tell the media where you are. I’m sure the news stations in Philadelphia can get to your place before dinner. You wouldn’t want an unannounced Q&A, would you?
    ***
    The only person who knows the truth is Liz, and she wouldn’t toy with me like this. There is no way this isn’t a trap.
    Remembering the last time I was in the outside world alone, I realize there’s a possibility that at some point during this escapade, I’ll be followed. But when I reach the train station, no one seems to recognize me or pay me any attention, even at this slow hour. Most look like weary long-distance travelers or exhausted business men and women. I pay for my ticket in cash and make for the string of silver cars, finding a seat in one of the empty ones. Luckily for me, my pulled-up hood isn’t suspicious. It’s freezing, even in the train.
    I busy myself with the screen of my tablet, like a normal girl in her twenties would do. I venture onto CR Collective and read some of the fan-fiction to distract myself. I find it more hilarious than insulting. Most fics involve me, Casey, and Valerie for
our
CR. Some writers are invested with the stories of the dead criminals. As far as shipping and romance go, writers like to pair me with Gordon.
    God, people are dark.
    Even after Casey and I were caught at the Missouri motel together, more members ship Valerie and me over me and Casey. I’ve come to discover by reading the threads in other parts of the forum that Casey has a pretty large underground fan club. People like to make him out to be a saint—the abused child only trying to save his mother from the grip of his alcoholic father (there are thousands of fics reimagining this story). Of course, this makes him far too innocent to ever be marred by a cretin like me.
    There is one new piece of Evalyn/Casey fan-fiction that I haven’t read yet. This one plays off our secret meeting in Missouri. In this universe, I lured Casey to the hotel, had dark, kinky, poorly written sex with him, and then used it as blackmail to force him to say certain things when he took the stand during the trial.
    Evalyn Ibarra, the manipulative bitch.
    ***
    After twenty minutes, the train deposits me close to the bar where I’m supposed to meet the stranger. I don’t know what kind of bar I was expecting, but what I stumble upon doesn’t do anything to ease my clenching insides.
    I stall in the street. A bunch of burly guys stand outside the front door in the old gray