Free Never Knowing by Chevy Stevens Page B

gripped in my hand, praying Evan would call soon. The phone rang in my hand once, making me jump, but it was just another reporter. After a while I made myself call Dad and tell him what I found online and about the calls.
    He said, “Don’t answer the phone if you don’t know the number. If someone asks about the Campsite Killer, deny everything. You were adopted but your birth mother wasn’t Karen Christianson.”
    “You think I should lie?”
    “Damn right. I’ll tell Melanie and Lauren the same. And if any punk calls again, just hang up.”
    “Should I go to the police?”
    “They can’t do anything. I’ll deal with this. Send me the links.”
    “Most of them are just forums.”
    “Send them.”
    *   *   *

    I did as he said, then tortured myself by reading the comments again. There were ten new ones, each sicker than the last. I checked the other Web sites and the comments were just as bad. It shocked me that people could be so mean about someone they didn’t know—and it terrified me that they knew my name. I wanted to monitor the sites, wanted to defend myself and Julia, but it was time to go meet with Ally’s teacher.
    It wasn’t as bad as I thought. Turns out the other little girl had been harassing Ally for a while—messing up her desk, taking paints while Ally was still using them—and Ally finally lost it. Of course, I said I’d explain to her that pushing wasn’t the way to deal with disagreements and she should tell an adult if she’s having problems, but I’d have said anything to get out of there. What Ally did was wrong, and I did talk to her about it, but frankly it didn’t seem like such a big deal compared to the fact that I’d just ruined Julia’s life, not to mention my own. Then I dragged my whole family into it. It was the last one that hurt the most.
    *   *   *

    The phone finally rang at eight. As soon as I saw Evan’s cell number I answered in a rush, “We have to talk.”
    “What’s going on?”
    “That Web site—it spread somehow, maybe they didn’t do a Google sweep. But now it’s on other blogs. It’s mostly about Julia, but there are all these disgusting comments—some of them mention my name . Then this teenager called and said he’s my father. Reporters are calling, but I’m not answering, and Dad said—”
    “Sara, slow down—I can’t understand half of what you’re saying.” I took a deep breath and began again. At the end Evan was silent for a minute, then said, “Have you called the cops?”
    “Dad said they can’t do anything.”
    “You should still tell them what’s going on.”
    “I don’t know … he said he’ll deal with it.” The last thing I wanted was Dad pissed at me for going against him.
    “So let him, but get something on record.”
    “He’s right, though. They can’t do anything about someone playing a joke.”
    “You asked for my advice. Call the police in the morning—and don’t comment on any of these blogs.”
    “Okay, okay.”
    *   *   *

    After I hung up the phone, I climbed into bed and watched late-night TV until I fell into a restless sleep. Early the next morning the phone rang. Without looking at the call display I reached over and picked it up.
    “Hello?”
    A male voice said, “Good morning. I understand you restore furniture?”
    I sat up. “I do. What can I help you with?”
    “I have a few pieces, a table, some chairs. I don’t think they’re worth much, but they were my mother’s and I’d like to give them to my daughter.”
    “Value isn’t always what you can sell something for—it’s what it means to you.”
    “This table means a lot. I spent most of my time there—I like food.” He laughed and I laughed back.
    “Kitchen tables tell the story of a family. Sometimes people just want me to clean them up a little but preserve marks their children made, things like that.”
    “How much do you usually charge?”
    “Why don’t I have a look and give you an