The Dead Subscriber
Nathan didn’t kill himself.
I read the message six times before checking the timestamp. Friday. 7:03 a.m. Nathan had been found that morning. I didn’t know exactly when he’d died, when the police had arrived, or when Claire found out. Lately, not knowing things had become a full-time job.
But Nathan was dead. And @LenaLived was still messaging me.
I typed, Who are you?
The response came quickly. That isn’t the question you should be asking.
I stared at it. Something about the message felt different. The account had always been clipped and irritating, like someone grading a test I didn’t remember signing up for. This was still evasive, obviously, because apparently direct answers were against the rules, but the tone had shifted.
Then what should I be asking?
A minute later: Who wanted him quiet?
My stomach tightened. Claire. The answer came into my head way too fast, and I hated that.
I typed, How do you know he didn’t kill himself? Did you know Nathan?
Nothing. I waited long enough to get annoyed, then another message came through.
He was trying to help you.
I read it twice. Not he knew. Not ask him. He was trying to help you. Past tense. Personal.
How? Were you talking to him?
No response. So I asked the question I didn’t really want answered.
Were you @LenaLived before he died?
Nothing. Technically, that wasn’t an answer. It sure as hell felt like one.
I closed the laptop.
The police called at 9:26. Detective Aaron Mills introduced himself and asked if I had time to answer a few questions.
I laughed. He didn’t.
“Sorry.”
“No problem.” His voice said there was definitely a problem. “Ms. Voss, when was the last time you saw Nathan Cole?”
My mouth went dry. “Thursday. We met at a coffee shop. Yesterday we talked by phone.”
“How long were you together Thursday?”
“Maybe forty-five minutes.”
“And what did you discuss?”
There it was. I looked toward the laptop. Lena. Her phone. The video. Me.
“Something that happened in college.”
“What happened?”
“A friend disappeared.”
There was a pause. “Lena Hart?”
I sat straighter. “You know about Lena?”
“I’ve done some reading.”
Of course he had. Nathan Cole was a successful attorney who’d just been found dead in his home. The police were probably digging through every part of his life. Eventually that would include me.
“Yes. Lena.”
“What did Mr. Cole tell you about her disappearance?”
I hesitated long enough that Detective Mills said my name again.
“He told me he buried her phone.”
That bought me a longer silence. “Why?”
“He said there was a video on it.”
“What kind of video?”
“I don’t know.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
I closed my eyes. “It recorded something that happened that night.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.” At least that part was completely true.
He moved on to Nathan’s state of mind. Had he seemed upset? Yes. Nervous? Definitely. Agitated? Maybe.
“Depressed?”
“No.” That came out too fast. Detective Mills noticed.
“You sound certain.”
“He was scared.”
“Of what?”
I thought about Nathan sitting across from me in the coffee shop. There are things about that night that only a few people could know. Then his call after I published Chapter Seven. Because now she knows.
“I don’t know.”
There was a brief silence. “That seems to be coming up a lot.”
I frowned. “Excuse me?”
“You met with a man less than twenty-four hours before his death and discussed buried evidence connected to an old missing-person case. Then he called you again the night before he died.”
My stomach dropped. “You know about the call.”
“We have his phone.”
Of course they did. He asked how long we’d spoken and what Nathan had said.
“He told me I should’ve stopped.”
“Stopped what?”
“Writing.”
“What are you writing?”
I almost laughed because there was no way to explain any of this without sounding insane. “A serialized thriller. On my blog.”
“And it relates to Mr. Cole how?”
“It’s inspired by Lena’s disappearance.”
Another pause. “Was Mr. Cole upset about the story?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” There it was again. I could hear him writing.
Detective Mills asked if Nathan and I had argued. No. Had he threatened me? No. Then he asked if I’d threatened Nathan.
“What?”
“Did you threaten Nathan Cole?”
“No. Absolutely not.” My pulse had started climbing.
He asked if I’d gone to Nathan’s house after our meeting, whether I knew where he lived, whether Nathan had ever talked about harming himself. No to all three.
“Did he seem suicidal?”
“No.” Again, too fast. This time I didn’t care.
“He didn’t kill himself.”
The words came out before I decided to say them. Detective Mills went quiet. “Why do you believe that?”
I looked at the laptop. Because an anonymous account using the name of my missing friend had messaged me after Nathan died and told me he was murdered. Yeah. That would sound completely sane.
“I just don’t.”
“That’s not evidence.”
“I know.”
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Several things, actually. “No.” I hated how easily that came out.
He took the rest of my information and asked me not to leave town without notifying them. That part felt dramatic enough that I laughed again. He still didn’t. Then the call ended.
By noon, Nathan’s death was online.
PROMINENT LOCAL ATTORNEY FOUND DEAD.
No cause of death. No mention of suicide. Not yet. Just that he’d been found dead in his home Friday morning.
I read the article twice, then made the mistake of reading the comments. People had theories immediately because apparently strangers on the internet needed approximately eleven seconds to become homicide detectives.
Heart attack. Drugs. Business problem. Affair.
Then one comment stopped me. Wasn’t he one of the people connected to that missing college girl?
I closed the article.
Nope.
I’d called Claire four times since that morning and texted twice. Nothing. That wasn’t Claire. Claire could absolutely ignore you out of spite, but she usually made damn sure you knew she was ignoring you out of spite. Silence wasn’t her thing.
I texted: Police called me. They know I met Nathan.
Delivered. Nothing.
A few minutes later: Claire, call me.
Still nothing. Her last message from the night before sat above mine.
Call me.
Twenty-four hours. Apparently that was all it took for everything to go completely to hell.
At 2:17, @LenaLived messaged again.
Don’t tell Claire everything.
I stared at it. That could’ve come from Nathan. Maybe. Except Nathan had spent the last couple of weeks pushing me toward Claire, not away from her. This felt different. Protective, almost.
Why?
Because she’s scared.
I swallowed. Of what?
You remembering.
I pushed back from the desk. There it was again. Claire telling me to delete the story. Because you’re remembering. Claire’s hand around my wrist. Stop crying. Listen to me. Nathan at the coffee shop. Claire told me to. Then his last phone call. Because now she knows.
I typed, What does she think I’m going to remember?
Nothing. Then: You said Nathan was trying to help me. Help me with what?
That answer took longer. Getting you to the truth without breaking you.
My throat tightened. Something about that line bothered me. Then I realized what it was. That didn’t sound like Nathan. Nathan would’ve said remember. Or closer. Or probably nothing at all. He wouldn’t have written without breaking you.
I scrolled back through the messages.
That’s not what happened.
It was 12:17.
Is it?
Keep looking.
She always did tell you what to do.
Ask Nathan what he buried.
Closer.
Don’t.
Then: Nathan didn’t kill himself. He was trying to help you. Getting you to the truth without breaking you.
Same account. Same blank profile. But suddenly I wasn’t convinced it had always been the same person.
I typed, Did Nathan give you this account? Are there two of you?
Nothing. Then I finally asked the question that had been sitting in the back of my head since the beginning.
Are you Lena?
The answer came almost immediately.
No.
One word. And somehow it felt more honest than anything else the account had ever told me.
Someone knocked on my front door at 4:06.
I froze. Police? Claire? For one completely irrational second, I thought Nathan. Then reality caught up. Nathan was dead.
I checked the peephole. No one. When I opened the door, the porch was empty except for a white envelope sitting on the mat. No stamp. No name. Nothing.
I stared at it. “Absolutely not.”
I shut the door. I left it outside for eleven minutes. Then I went back and picked it up with a dish towel because apparently I’d watched enough crime shows to qualify for my own forensic unit.
Inside was a photocopy of an old newspaper article. I recognized Lena’s picture immediately. Same missing-person story, except this wasn’t one I’d found online. Someone had written notes along the margins in blue ink. Three words were circled.
SEARCH AREA EXPANDED SOUTH.
At the bottom someone had written: Wrong direction.
My skin prickled. I flipped the page over. Nothing. I went outside and looked down the street, but there wasn’t a conveniently suspicious car or hooded stranger waiting around.
I took a picture and sent it to @LenaLived. Did you leave this?
No response.
Then I sent it to Claire. Do you know anything about this?
The message didn’t deliver. I tried again. Nothing. Then I called her. Straight to voicemail. Claire’s phone was off.
That bothered me more than I wanted it to.
At 5:31, a name appeared on my screen that I hadn’t seen in years.
Owen Mercer.
I stared at it long enough that the call almost ended before I answered. “Hello?”
“Mara?”
His voice was older. That was the first thing I noticed. Older and quieter.
“Owen.”
“Jesus.” Neither of us said anything for a second. Twenty years had apparently left us with absolutely nothing in the small-talk department.
Then he asked, “Are you alone?”
Every nerve in my body tightened. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
I walked to the front window. Street. Neighbor’s car. Nothing.
“Yes.”
“You need to stop talking to Claire.”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“I saw Nathan died.”
“So did everyone.”
“I know.”
“What does that have to do with Claire?”
Owen exhaled. “Mara, I don’t want to do this over the phone.”
I almost laughed. “Apparently nobody does.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Why are you calling me?”
“Because I read your story.”
“Of course you did. Apparently everyone has.”
“I didn’t know you remembered.”
My entire body went still. “Owen.”
“Not everything. Obviously. But some of the things you’ve been writing.”
“The house?”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t exactly a secret anymore.”
“The argument.” My throat tightened. “Claire and Lena?”
He was quiet for a second. “Yes.”
“Was I there?”
“For some of it.”
I closed my eyes. “What happened?”
“Mara—”
“Please don’t. Don’t tell me I’m not ready. Don’t tell me I shouldn’t be asking. Don’t tell me to stop writing. I’ve heard all of it.”
Owen stayed quiet for a moment. Then he asked, “Did Nathan tell you about the phone?”
My eyes opened. “How do you know about the phone?”
“He told me.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
Nathan had told me Owen didn’t know. Then again, Nathan had said Owen didn’t know that night. Maybe those were very different things.
“When did he tell you?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Ten years ago, maybe more.”
“Why?”
“Because he was drunk.”
That actually sounded like Nathan. “What did he tell you?”
“Not enough.”
“Did he tell you about the video?”
“Yes.”
My heart started pounding. “What was on it?”
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
I laughed bitterly. “Of course he wouldn’t. Nobody wants to tell me anything.”
“Mara.”
“What?”
“Whatever Claire told you happened that night, she lied.”
I stood. “What did she tell me?”
Silence. “You don’t remember?”
“No.”
Another pause. “Owen.”
“I thought you did.”
“Well, I don’t. Everybody keeps telling me I know things I don’t fucking know.”
“Mara, calm down.”
“Do not tell me to calm down.”
“Okay.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I can’t tell you all of it.”
I nearly screamed. “Why?”
“Because I wasn’t there for all of it.”
That stopped me. “What does that mean?”
“I left.”
“When?”
“Before the end.”
“What end?”
Owen exhaled, and I heard a door close on his side. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
“I’ve spent twenty years telling myself it wasn’t my fault because I left.”
My mouth went dry. “Left the house?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Claire told me to go.”
Of course she did. “Why?”
“I thought Lena was hurt.”
Everything inside me stopped. “What?”
“I knew something happened. I heard yelling. I saw blood.”
My knees suddenly felt weak, so I sat down. “Whose blood?”
“I don’t know.”
“Owen.”
“I swear. I didn’t know.”
I swallowed. “Was Lena alive?”
He went quiet.
“Owen.”
“Yes.”
My fingers tightened around the phone. “When you left?”
“Yes. She was breathing.”
For a few seconds, I couldn’t say anything.
Lena. Alive. Nathan’s phone. Claire. The ambulance. The story I’d written. Emily moved. Her fingers twitched. She was alive.
“Then what happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
“I swear to you.”
“You left her?”
“I thought they were calling for help.”
“Who?”
“Claire. Nathan. You.”
Me.
My stomach turned. “You thought I was calling for help?”
“I thought one of you would.”
“But we didn’t.”
Owen said nothing. I stood again because sitting suddenly felt impossible.
“The police searched the lake.”
“I know.”
“We told them she wandered off.”
“I know.”
“You told them that too.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His voice broke slightly when he answered. “Because Claire called me the next morning and told me that’s what happened.”
My skin went cold. “You believed her?”
“I wanted to.”
That answer hurt because I understood it. “What did you see before you left?”
“Mara.”
“No. Tell me.”
He was quiet for so long I thought maybe he’d hung up. Then he finally answered.
“Lena was on the floor. There was blood near her head. You were crying, and Claire was telling everybody what to do.”
My wrist hurt. Not really. But I felt Claire’s hand anyway.
Stop crying. Listen to me.
“What about Nathan?”
“He looked terrified.”
“And Lena?”
“Alive.”
Again. That word. Alive.
I forced myself to breathe. “Owen, did Lena die at Blackwater?”
Nothing. My heart started pounding harder.
“Owen?”
“No.”
Everything in me stopped. “What?”
“She didn’t die at the lake.”
For a second, I couldn’t breathe. Owen kept talking, but his voice sounded far away.
“I don’t know what Claire told you after I left,” he said. “But Lena Hart was alive when they took her out of that house.”
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