Page 53 of The Better Sister

“That’s correct. It’s a series for The Cut called ‘How I Get it Done.’”

“You did a piece with theNew York Timesabout how you spend your Sundays?”

“Yes.”

After I responded in the affirmative about my book deal and a few additional accolades, Judge Rivera nudged things along. “I think the jury gets the idea,” she said dryly.

“Not all of the effects of the publicity have been positive, though, have they? I’m speaking specifically about your experiences on social media. How would you describe those?”

I had no idea where he was going with this line of questioning, but I tried to use it as an opportunity to connect once again with the jury. I told them how I was nervous about using social media professionally at first. “I was a bit of an old soul, I suppose, chasing a career in traditional print publishing as a very young person, only to see it transformed so quickly once I had a foot in the door. But I’ve gotten the hang of it. Readers like to see the person behind the written word. My most popular Instagram posts are the ones of our gigantic cat, Greedy Panda.”

“You get some negative feedback as well, though.” Nunzio didn’t even phrase it as a question.

“Yes. Comes with the territory, I’m told.”

“You’ve even received threats, correct?”

“Yes. In fact, when Adam was killed, I expected the police to investigate—”

Nunzio cut my answer off as nonresponsive.

“Based on a review of your social media posts, it appears that you sometimes respond to these comments?”

“Rarely. It’s a new world out there. Some people think the best tactic is a good public shaming, but I usually end up ignoring them.”

“But you read the feedback?”

“Not every single comment, but yes, I skim through.”

Nunzio walked to his counsel table and picked up a piece of paper from a series of stacked piles. “I apologize in advance, but are these comments fairly representative of the negative end of your social media spectrum? ‘She’s full of herself. Totally fake.’ ‘Man-hating repressed dyke.’ ‘Someone needs to shut her mouth with a’ and then they use a crude term for a man’s genitals. This is part of your usual social media interactions?”

A few of the jurors winced. The woman who worked at the outlet mall gasped out loud. Olivia and I had been planning to introduce this evidence to suggest that a stranger may have targeted our house. Nunzio appeared to be putting it out there before we could.

“Yes, unfortunately,” I said. “I received—and still receive—multiple rape threats on a daily basis.”

“Do these comments tend to come from a wide number of users, or is it a small number of people writing multiple comments each?”

“There’s no way to know, really, because one person could in theory have two hundred accounts with different user names. I’d say there are a number of account names I’d recognize as repeat offenders, but usually it’s just some random person spouting off.”

“How about Bilbo B? Does that sound familiar?”

“I believe so.”

“Alpha3?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean there haven’t been posts.”

“KurtLoMein?”

“Yes, that one I remember. The irony is that my husband was a big Nirvana fan—the lead singer was Kurt Cobain—so the name stuck. But I don’t want to give these people any further attention, if you don’t mind, Mr. Nunzio.”

“Fair enough,” he said, setting down the sheet of paper he’d been reading from. “And have you ever spoken to your stepson, the defendant, about his feelings regarding your work?”

Olivia objected on the basis of the state’s privilege for parent-child communications. I didn’t mind answering this particular question, but my guess was that she was raising the privilege now so we could learn one way or the other whether the judge was going to apply it to my relationship with Ethan.

Rivera beckoned both lawyers to the bench. A few minutes of whispering later, she directed me to answer the question. Apparently I was not, in this court’s view, Ethan’s parent.

Nunzio repeated the question about Ethan’s feelings toward my career. “If he sees my name trending or something, he might mention it to make sure I know. He’s made it clear he’s proud of me. When I received an important award last May, he attended the ceremony with me. If you watch the YouTube footage of it, you can hear a couple of guys whistling and cheering. That was Ethan and Adam.” I smiled sadly at the memory. It seemed like another lifetime. I remembered thinking at that moment that maybe Adam and I were going to be okay after all.

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