The Haters

by Robyn Harding

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

The bestselling author of The Party and The Drowning Woman returns with a twisted tale of fame, success, and the dark recesses of social media.

Camryn Hart is living her dream. After years of struggle and rejection, her first novel has finally been published. Her editor is happy; her fiancé, Matt, is supportive; and her friends are all excited for her. She’s on top of the world—until she receives a disturbing email from an unfamiliar address. 

Rattled by the accusations she finds there, Camryn swallows the sick feeling in her stomach and resolves to put the email out of her mind. But then she checks her ratings on a popular book site and finds a similarly scathing one-star review. The reviewer is articulate, passionate, and convincing, so much so that other reviewers start to fall in line. Soon, Camryn’s book is flooded with bad reviews. Could the reviewer be the same person who sent the email?

Desperate to understand what's going on, Camryn starts to look into who the reviewer might be. Other authors warn her that trolls are dangerous, that she should be careful, but the actions of the troll are escalating, and Camryn's starting to lose touch with what's real and what isn't. When the troll's harassment turns deadly, it will take everything Camryn has to unmask the enemy who's been sabotaging her every move—and finally learn why she's being targeted. 

Release date: July 9, 2024

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 336

Sample

I LOCK THE BATHROOM door, hike up my gunmetal-gray skirt, and peel my Spanx down to my knees. I have exactly six minutes to pee before I’m due onstage. My bladder has always been nervous, and the two glasses of champagne I’ve downed in quick succession may have been a mistake. But the bubbles have softened my jangly nerves, made everything feel warm and smudgy and effervescent. This is a celebration, after all. I mustn’t forget that.

I’ve never been comfortable being the center of attention. There were fourteen people at my wedding, including Adrian and me. My master’s degree in counseling was marked by take-out Thai food and a six-pack of beer. And when I had Liza, I politely refused a baby shower, so my colleagues delivered onesies, teddy bears, and swaddling blankets to my windowless office, one by one. Twelve years later, my best friend, Martha, threw me a divorce party. She knew I’d never allow it, knew I thought it was gross to fete the demise of an eighteen-year union, no matter how unhappy we both were. I’d walked into the restaurant expecting a quiet dinner with my oldest friend, only to be surprised by thirty drunk women wearing pink feather boas and tiaras that spelled out DIVORCED AF. I’d had no choice but to go along with it: to drink the sugar-rimmed Pink Señoritas, to nibble on the penis-shaped cookies (why?), to dance the night away to the female empowerment playlist Martha had curated. The failure of my marriage was the biggest celebration of my life. Until now.

Wriggling my Spanx back into position, I hurry to the sink to wash my hands. My reflection stares back at me, smoldering and dramatic. Liza did my makeup, my glam, as she called it. At seventeen, my daughter has turned her obsession with YouTube tutorials into a career as a makeup artist, but I don’t feel like myself with these smoky eyes, the contoured hollows in my cheeks, the nude glossy lips.

“You’re famous now,” Liza had teased when I’d expressed my discomfort. “Time to step up your game.”

“I’m hardly famous,” I’d said, but I couldn’t help but smile. I felt proud and emotional. My first novel, Burnt Orchid, has been out in the world for two days. The manuscript I poured my soul into for almost three years now sits on bookstore shelves, and it’s the achievement of my life. When I’d first gotten the publishing offer, it had felt like success, like winning the lottery or, more aptly, the Olympics. After years of dedication, toil, and perfecting my craft, it was the ultimate accomplishment. But now the book is real, available for readers to buy. Or not. This is the culmination of a journey, and the very beginning.

When I return to the narrow lounge with its dim lighting, eclectic décor, and retro soundtrack, the party is in full swing. Theo approaches with a flute of champagne. “How’re you holding up?” His hand is warm and intimate on the curve of my back. We’ve been seeing each other for almost two years, but sometimes it still feels new, a little awkward. Like now. There are people at this event who have never met my boyfriend, and I know they’ll be surprised. Theo is nine years younger than I am, though it’s not readily noticeable. At thirty-five, he’s rugged, athletic, outdoorsy—a typical West Coast guy. He owns a company that rents Jet Skis and paddleboards in the summer, snowmobiles and skis in the winter. Theo and his staff of exuberant Gen Z’ers offer guided tours, too. He’s an odd choice for a human house cat like me, but somehow, we work. Still, I know how we appear: mismatched, like a hiking boot and a fluffy slipper. My ex, Adrian, and I bickered and sniped constantly, but we looked the part.

“I’m nervous,” I admit, and Theo pulls me close, kisses the side of my head.

“Drink up,” he suggests, and I take a tiny sip. There’s a fine line between taking the edge off and slurring.

My bestie, Martha, hurries up to me, her eyes shiny and unfocused. She has no reason to curtail her free champagne intake, and she clearly hasn’t. “Okay, babe, let’s do this.” She squeezes my free hand. “I’ll introduce you and then I’ll call you up onstage for the toast.”

“Thanks.” I squeeze her hand back. Martha had insisted on playing emcee. She loves the spotlight, I know this about her, but she also loves me. When I told her that a publisher had offered six figures for my debut novel (just barely six figures but still!), she’d reacted with a pure, unadulterated joy that almost matched my own. “I knew you could do it!” She’d wrapped me in a hug so tight my ribs ached. There was no envy. No resentment. No doubt that I was worthy. The same could not be said for some others in my orbit.

Martha turns to Theo. “Have you got the book?”

“Got it.” He presents a copy of my novel, a bookmark slipped into the first chapter.

“I’ll call Camryn up for the toast,” Martha continues. “After that, you take her glass and hand her the book for the reading.”

“Thanks, you two.” I smile at them each in turn, my eyes glistening, a thickness in my throat.

“Oh my god, stop,” Martha chides. “You’re so emotional.”

And I am. Because this is my dream realized. After years of rejection and false starts. After paying money I didn’t have for workshops and courses. After being scammed by a fake agent; neglecting my daughter so I could write; doubting my talent, questioning my tenacity, and cursing my luck, I am a published writer. An author. It’s a validation my soul has craved since I was a girl.

My best friend steps onto the small stage where a musician with a guitar plays cover tunes on the weekends. Theo and I sink into a darkened corner beside it. Martha moves to the mic, taps it. Thunk, thunk. “Thank you all for coming.” The crowd quiets in response. “We’re here tonight to celebrate the launch of my dear friend Camryn’s first novel, Burnt Orchid.”

Applause. A few exuberant hoots. I dab at a tear that threatens my smoky eye. Looking out at the crowd of well-wishers, my heart swells. All these people have come out for me. To show their support and toast my achievement. I’d reached deep into the friend archives for this event. Martha said we needed to fill the room. And I want people to buy my book, of course. There are over fifty people filling the sticky little bar I’ve rented for the occasion, and I appreciate every one of them.

Closest to the stage is a cluster of my colleagues: three high school counselors, a handful of teachers, some of the admin staff. They work hard for mediocre pay at a school in a rough neighborhood. It’s Thursday night, and tomorrow they’ll have to wrangle angry, troubled, recalcitrant teens. But they’re imbibing freely, nibbling the circulating canapés, happy for an excuse to blow off steam. To celebrate a co-worker rising out of the trenches. Partway out, anyway. I’m still working three days a week. For now.

Behind my co-workers is a mishmash of friends and acquaintances. Martha’s husband, Felix, nurses a beer, eyes bright as he watches his gregarious partner of eight years. I note the gaggle of stay-at-home moms from Liza’s private school (Adrian’s parents insist and pay the fees), their clingy outfits skimming their yoga-toned bodies. They had all but dropped me when Adrian and I divorced. No one wants a single woman at their dinner party. What if she drinks too much and flirts with the husbands? What if they flirt with her? But when they heard my publishing news, they came out of the woodwork, my exile forgotten.

My college roommate is here, now an orthopedic surgeon with three sons in high school. I spy my hairdresser and her pals; a cluster of neighbors; a crew from the gym I never have time to go to. My publisher has invited some local salespeople, and a woman in a wrap-dress who works for the distributor. A few high school friends whisper among themselves, accustomed to Martha’s rambling speeches.

At the back of the room, huddled together in a tight little knot, is my writers’ group. There are five of us: Rhea, Marni, Spencer, Navid, and me… although Rhea isn’t here tonight. A head cold, she said, though I have my doubts. Up until now, Rhea had been the most accomplished in our circle, publishing a few short stories and winning a prestigious but obscure literary award. I know my success is hard for her, for all of them. Because it would be for me. I remember the envy, the visceral longing to be recognized. This is what they are all striving for, the end goal of their years of work. They’re all smiling but I see the strain in it.

My phone vibrates in my tiny purse: a notification. It will be one of my loved ones who couldn’t make it tonight: my mom or my sister on the other side of the country; or Liza, stuck at her dad’s place because she’s too young to attend a party at a bar. Maybe it’s my agent or my editor, wishing me luck tonight. Martha is still talking, moving on to our meeting in the eighth grade, and I realize this introduction might be longer than my reading. I set my flute on a table and pull out my phone.

It’s an email, sent to my author account. I’d been encouraged by my publisher to set up a website, to include a “contact me” form. It feels fortuitous to receive my first fan mail moments before I take the stage. Eagerly, I tap to open the message.

INGRID WANDRY

RE: Burnt Orchid

I just finished reading your book and I enjoyed it, for a piece of mindless garbage. But when I read your bio that says you are a high school counselor, I was disgusted. Your novel has a prominent teen storyline, and you’ve obviously exploited the psyches and crises of your vulnerable public school students to make a few bucks. Shame on you. I hope their parents sue you.

Humiliation burns my cheeks, makes me feel dizzy and sick. I wobble in my heels as though this woman has reached out and slapped me. Theo cups my elbow to steady me.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, but I can’t talk. My mouth is dry and sour. I wasn’t prepared for such hatred and vitriol. The ugliness of the words has rattled me, dredged up all my self-doubt and insecurities.

“Please raise your glass,” Martha says, glancing into the wings. It’s my cue. “To the success of Burnt Orchid. And our good friend Camryn Lane.”

Blindly, I stumble onto the stage.

I WAKE TO A dull pounding behind my eyebrows, my throat so dry it feels burnt. Fridays are now a day off, a day for drafting my next novel, though I already know I won’t get any writing done. The champagne intake I’d so carefully monitored before my speech had been all but forgotten after it. Once the crowd thinned and only the diehards remained, the evening had devolved into debauchery. The yummy mummies had insisted on shots. My old roommate had taken to the stage to perform a raunchy dance solo. I’m not normally a big drinker, but I partied like I was in college. And now my forty-four-year-old body is paying for it.

A glass of cloudy water sits on my bedside table. (Theo, I assume? I have a foggy recollection of him pouring me into an Uber, helping me into the apartment, putting me to bed.) I reach for it, my mind drifting to the antics of the night as I gulp the tepid liquid. Despite my inherent discomfort with the spotlight, I’d relished it: the dancing, the laughter, the words of love, support, and admiration. I’d felt so happy, so worthy. And yet there is an ugly gray feeling pressing down on me, a malaise unrelated to alcohol’s depressing effects. The email.

Those hateful, accusatory words snake their way into my memory. As a high school counselor, I’m no stranger to abuse. It’s my job to break up fights, mediate vendettas, soothe disgruntled students angry at the world. I’ve been called horrible things to my face; I can only imagine what is said behind my back. But those insults came from a place of anger. Those kids were lashing out at an authority figure. The email is different.

The name is trapped in my mind like a wasp in amber: Ingrid Wandry. She’s the woman who bought my book, sat down to read it, and assessed it as “mindless garbage.” She has a right to her opinion, but why did she want me to know it? Maybe it never occurred to her that most writers are highly sensitive beings, and that attacking their book is like a physical blow. Perhaps she thinks AI robots devoid of feelings have already taken over. Or did she want to hurt me? Sending a disparaging email directly to a writer seems so extreme, so unnecessarily mean. Who does that?

Shaking off the memory, I drag myself out of bed and into the attached bathroom. My reflection is nothing short of monstrous, the remnants of Liza’s makeup smeared and garish. I wash my face, brush the fuzz off my teeth, and run a brush through my hair. Wrapping my robe around me, I move into the apartment. My place is “cozy” (in Realtor speak) but adequate for me—and Liza, every other week. It’s on the third floor, at the back of a squat building, a corner unit with windows on two sides. I bought it for the light that filters in through the trees, the leaves that tickle the glass in spring and summer making me feel like I live in a tree house. It was also the only place I could afford that was within walking distance of Adrian’s house. If Liza must grow up in two homes, we want them to be close together.

In the open kitchen, I find a cold pot of coffee, more evidence that Theo was here, that he spent the night, that he left early for work. Turning the machine back on, I spy my tiny purse discarded on the counter and dig my phone out of it. I have several congratulatory texts from family and friends who couldn’t attend last night’s celebrations, including one from my agent, Holly.

How was the party?!?!?

Holly and I have become friends over the past two years. After she signed me, we spent several months editing my manuscript, getting it ready for submission. When it sold to a big five publisher, I flew to New York to meet the team and Holly and I had lunch with my editor. That night, Holly took me to a quaint Italian restaurant in the West Village where we talked long into the night over red wine and espressos. My agent is younger than I am, she doesn’t have kids, and she lives in Manhattan, the center of the economic universe. (Vancouver, in contrast, is known for its exceptionally laid-back lifestyle and high marijuana use.) But we’re both divorced, both dating men with whom we have little in common (her boyfriend owns a butcher shop), and we share a dark sense of humor. Sometimes I wonder if our relationship is unprofessional—the gossip, the snarky jokes, the inappropriate conversations about Jason Momoa—but I can’t deny I enjoy it.

Amazing, I text back. So hungover.

My phone rings in my hand, Holly’s name on the call display.

“Hey, party animal,” she teases when I answer. “How was it?”

“I had a great time,” I tell her, rummaging in the freezer for a loaf of bread. Toast might help this queasy stomach. “A ton of people came out to celebrate. I felt really supported.”

“How many books did you sell?” Despite our friendship, Holly is an agent, a New Yorker.

“I think about fifty? I’ll check with the bookseller.”

“Great. Every sale counts.”

“I got an email from a reader…” I begin, closing the freezer door, but I trail off. I feel awkward, even ashamed. I know there’s no truth to Ingrid Wandry’s accusation, but what if Holly doubts me? What if the allegation plants a seed of suspicion?

“That’s a good sign,” Holly says. “It means readers are engaging with the book.”

“It wasn’t good,” I admit, removing a slice of bread from the bag. “It was horrible. This reader accused me of stealing stories from the students I counsel.”

“People are crazy.” Holly dismisses it. “Unfortunately, when you put your work out into the world, not everyone is going to love it.”

“This was more than not loving it. This was a serious accusation.” I drop the bread into the toaster. “Do I respond? Or should I ignore it?”

“I’d say ignore it, but that’s a question for your PR person.”

My PR rep, Olivia Lopez, is calm, confident, and capable. She will know how to handle Ingrid Wandry appropriately, but my stomach dips at the thought of bringing this issue to her. As a debut author, I want to be easy. I want to bring positivity, not problems and negative feedback. I want her to spend her time promoting my book, not troubleshooting my issues.

“Right,” I tell Holly. “I’ll talk to Olivia.”

“Don’t let it bother you,” Holly says. “Readers are going to love this book. And the next one.”

The pressure is subtle but there. My publisher has first right of refusal on the next book I write, and Holly hopes they’ll make an offer based on an outline and a few sample chapters. Unfortunately, between promoting Burnt Orchid, my day job, my daughter, and this hangover, I haven’t made much progress.

“I’m on it,” I assure her, and we say our goodbyes.

With buttered toast and reheated coffee, I sit at the small round dining table and scroll through my phone. I respond to texts from my mom, my sister, and a dear friend down with the flu. Next, I sift through emails from charities I support, clothing sales I might be interested in, petitions related to others I’ve signed in the past, searching for anything work-related. There is one from my publicist, Olivia, confirming a Zoom interview with a library in Cleveland. And below it is the email from Ingrid Wandry.

I open it, hoping that in the cold light of day, the message won’t seem so horrible. My launch party was a heightened environment. Perhaps I’d taken Ingrid’s words the wrong way? But as I reread the missive, it is just as biting, just as critical as it was last night. My cheeks feel hot and the burnt coffee churns in my stomach. Is Ingrid “crazy” as Holly suggested? Or could she have a point? Had I subconsciously usurped my students’ angst for my own gains?

My character, Orchid Carder, was abused and abandoned. She went to juvenile detention for stabbing a man to death. She became a grifter, a criminal, a master manipulator. The young women in my novel are addicted to hard drugs, suffer sexual and police violence, are caught in the cycle of poverty and crime. My students have very real struggles that are not to be diminished, but they are simply not at that level.

Maple Heights Secondary School serves grades eight to twelve. It has an innovative counseling program that allows each counselor to work with the same kids for all five years. They come to me wide-eyed and nervous, and I support them through their academic, social, and behavioral progression. I’ve counseled my students through bullying, eating disorders, parental divorces, STDs, gender dysphoria, racism, drug use, shoplifting, and more… Had any of their experiences seeped into my work?

I hadn’t told the kids that I was publishing a novel. The entire mandate of my job is to focus on their needs, not talk about myself. And even after five years with the same students, they show remarkably little interest in me as a person. But our principal, Nancy, felt the need to make an announcement.

“We have a Shakespeare in our midst!” Nancy crowed over the intercom that morning. I knew she was talking about me even though Shakespeare was not a novelist (no one cares). “Please congratulate Ms. Lane on her new novel, Burnt Orchid. And tell all your parents to buy a copy.”

A handful of teens (all enriched English students, but one) had stopped by the counseling suite to congratulate me, but most of the school seemed uninterested. Would any of the kids tell their parents to buy my book? And if their parents did, would they recognize their children’s problems in its pages? Is it only a matter of time before they come after me with pitchforks and torches?

No, it’s not. Because I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve betrayed no trust, invaded no one’s privacy. I care about these young people, and I would never exploit them, even unconsciously. In fact, I’d purposely steered my story away from any real experiences, anything remotely recognizable. Ingrid Wandry doesn’t know me or my students, and she has no right to make assumptions, to judge and accuse me. She is a bitter, miserable, angry loser with no friends (a safe assumption given that her Thursday-night hobby is blasting writers for imagined offenses). I have just published my first novel. It’s a huge achievement. I’m not going to let the words of a troll bring me down.

“Goodbye, Ingrid,” I say into the empty apartment. With a swipe of my finger, I archive the email. Then I down my coffee and head to the shower.

THE BIG-BOX BOOKSTORE is bustling with weekend shoppers lazily browsing the shelves: new releases, bestsellers, Spicy BookTok… I meander through the displays feeling vulnerable and exposed, like I’m walking around naked among the customers. No one will recognize me, of course. But my words, my story, my heart is on the shelf, available for any of them to pick up, peruse, purchase, or dismiss. I’m scared to see Burnt Orchid sitting there, ignored. I’m scared to see it not sitting there, forgotten in a warehouse or lost on a truck somewhere. But I am here on a mission. Ignoring my discomfort, I make a beeline for customer service.

My publisher had recommended I sign local stock. This is the eighth bookstore I’ve visited this weekend. Yesterday, I covered the suburbs; today, I’m tackling the city. Like the neighborhood it occupies, this location is posh and upscale. In addition to books, they offer a well-curated selection of high-end home wares: blankets, pillows, framed prints, glassware… I join the queue of attractive shoppers who mostly seem to be buying scented candles or fuzzy reading socks.

“Hi.” I smile brightly as I approach the young woman behind the counter. “My name’s Camryn Lane. I’m here to sign copies of Burnt Orchid.”

She stares at me blankly, like I’ve just spoken to her in Romanian.

“I think my publicist called your manager,” I elaborate, aware of curious eyes on us. “My book just came out on Tuesday.”

“Umm…” She continues to look befuddled. “Let me call Britt. Can you stand off to the side so I can serve the customers waiting to buy things?”

I try not to feel like I’m in the naughty corner as I wait for Britt. Customers give me the side-eye as they pay, wondering if I’m someone they should know, or if I’m a strangely obedient shoplifter waiting to be scolded by the manager. All of the bookstores had been welcoming, some even excited by my presence. Here, I feel like a nuisance.

The tiny woman marching toward me in a white blouse, black trousers, and a shock of red lipstick has frazzled manager written all over her. But she smiles when she sees me.

“I’m Britt.” Her handshake is firm. “I loved Burnt Orchid. Really compelling.”

“Thank you so much.”

“We’ve got you set up back here,” she says, leading me away from the line of curious customers. “I hope you’ll have a decent turnout.”

“Turnout?”

Britt indicates a five-foot-long table stacked with copies of my book, and a bold sign on a metal stand.

AUTHOR SIGNING

CAMRYN LANE, AUTHOR OF BURNT ORCHID

TODAY, 2:00 TO 4:00

My heart flutters with nerves. “I didn’t realize this was an actual signing signing. I thought I was just signing stock.”

“Since you’re local, we wanted you to do an in-person signing. Didn’t your publicist tell you?”

“Umm… no. There must have been a miscommunication.”

“We p. . .