The Follower by Kate Doughty (ebook reader with built in dictionary TXT) 📕

his cage and brought him upstairs to explore her room. This house really does have good acoustics. But all Rudy finds online are vague details; searching for “Norton suicide 90s” yields too many obituaries, and “976 Tremont Street suicide” doesn’t result in any direct matches. He does find one promising lead: the archive website for the county paper. If he had a name, he’s sure that he could find more, but when he calls the realtor’s office to ask about the house’s last owners, it goes straight to voicemail. He leaves a message; hopefully they’ll get back to him tomorrow.

“Rudy,” Amber calls from her room. “Come here for a second.”

She has their livestream pulled up on her computer. It already has a ton of views, likes, and comments—and most of them are about the suicide revelation. The spooky aspect is definitely good for engagement.

“Great, right?” Rudy asks. “I’m so excited to respond to comments later—this is such a cool twist from our usual content.”

“No, it’s that same account,” Amber says. She gestures at the comments, and Rudy starts to read.

Contact Her! Let’s see some Ouija!

GHOST GHOST GHOST

The only thing scary in that house are Cecily’s BOObies

Finally, he sees what Amber is referring to.

It’s mine.

Another weird message from the same account that they had noticed earlier, the one with the avatar of the Tremont house. @Alex_Grable. Amber goes to delete it then frowns back up at Rudy. “What do you think?”

He shrugs. “We’ve gotten weirder comments, I guess. It’s probably just some high school kid messing with us.”

Amber frowns and checks the account’s activity. “Weirder than this?” she asks.

Whoever Alex Grable is, they’ve been all over the Cole family’s Instagram. While Rudy was jamming out on his guitar, Amber had managed to post several previews from their “before” photo shoot. There was even a photo of the turret room with a “scary” filter. On every post, Alex Grable had left a comment.

The living room: Mine.

The kitchen: It’s mine.

And then, on the turret room: This is mine. It belongs to me. That’s why I locked it.

CHAPTER 3

Cecily

Cecily wishes the Range Rover were louder. But the overpriced behemoth is surprisingly soft-sounding from the inside, so there is no roar of the engine to cover the awkward silence between Cecily and her father. The car itself is less of a vehicle and more of a prop, something Mrs. Cole had justified buying so that they could “keep up their image.” It had made its fair share of appearances in posts and vlogs, but Cecily wasn’t sure if that made up for the ridiculous car payments. Of course, those wouldn’t be a problem, either, if it weren’t for her dad.

Cecily cannot believe that her dad had failed to mention to any of them that the house they were moving into was the location of a suicide. It’s creepy beyond belief. She doesn’t blame her mom for being crazy pissed at him.

She absently reaches into her handbag to make sure her go bag of makeup is inside. It is. She doesn’t carry much in it, just a palette with creams that can be used on her cheeks, eyes, or lips, a mini eyeliner, concealer, and of course, her holy grail product: a travel-size bottle of Luxe makeup remover. She’d been so excited when they agreed to sponsor her last year after a couple of her posts featuring the product—and one about her go bag—had performed ridiculously well.

But even the prospect of touching up her makeup wasn’t enough to distract Cecily from the house. She replays the afternoon over and over in her head. Someone had died in the Tremont house. Died. Finally, Cecily can’t stand the silence anymore. “I can’t believe you knew and you didn’t tell Mom.”

Mr. Cole sighs and shoots her a pained look. He has no poker face. He’s not as good at acting as the triplets are. “I just . . . thought it needed some love. I know you’re worried about the house, but I also know this family. And I know that we can take care of it.”

Cecily softens. He sounds so . . . hopeful. She gives him a small smile.

But then he continues. “Besides, the money we save can go in your, uh, college fund.”

Cecily’s expression sours. “You mean the empty one?” she mutters.

“What did you say?”

“The empty one,” Cecily repeats, louder this time.

Her father’s hands tighten on the wheel. Cecily watches him swallow, hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. “Cecily, honey, I know that things haven’t been easy, but . . . rehab really helped me. And I’m thankful for you kids for sticking by me, through everything.” He starts to gnaw on his lower lip. His tell. Rudy pointed it out to her and now she sees it all the time.

“You didn’t just lose your money, dad,” Cecily says, finally. But her words are more sullen and bitter than angry. This had been their lifestyle for more than a year now, ever since a check bounced and they realized the extent of her father’s problems. “Most influencers with our following are rich, you know. We could have a house in the hills; I could have started a makeup line—”

“Cecily Jane.” She’d pushed too far. “That’s enough.”

“What are you doing to do? Ground me?” Cecily asks. “Take my phone away? Happy to do it. Would love to have you tell me you don’t need the money.”

Her father doesn’t answer. The snappy retort didn’t feel as good as Cecily thought it would. In fact, she doesn’t feel good at all. She used to enjoy spending time with her dad. Before he started gambling. Before he started losing. It’s not about the money or the mansions, not really. It’s about the fact that she hasn’t been allowed to be anything less than perfect since.

They need maximum engagement, Mrs. Cole says. Maximum sponsorships. They need the money. And Cecily’s makeup videos get the most sponsors