Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake, #3)

by Rachel Caine

Conspiracy theories have been multiplying insanely for years now, ever more ridiculous and far-fetched. Chemicals in contrails. Anti-vaxxers. Climate-change deniers. And all those are almost precious compared to the toxic horror of the 9/11 and school-shooting truthers who reduce the worst nightmare of any parent’s life to fakery, and rip the survivors’ lives apart.

Make a slanted documentary, launch some outrageous claims, find something that feels true about them, and sell it hard and often. The delusional and the emotionally disturbed will find something in it to comfort them. The lazy will rely on it as unlikely but possible. And in a year or two, the lazy will convince themselves “better safe than sorry” and pass it along as truth. She’s smart to do it this way. A documentary—even peddling half truths and lies—has a certain amount of built-in credibility.

Because if they had to admit it was real, that they could be vulnerable to the same terrifying, random events that hit me like a wrecking ball . . . that’s far too frightening. Better to fight an imaginary demon than face real ones.

It always is complicated, from the inside. People on the outside looking in seem to think it’s simple to cut ties, walk away . . . but there are so many ropes holding a person down. Children. Extended family. Friends. Jobs. Money. Obligations. Guilt. And fear, so much fear. The most dangerous time in any woman’s life is when she’s separating from a partner, particularly an abusive one. Women instinctively know that, even if they’ve never seen the blood-drenched statistics. Sometimes it feels safer to endure the devil you know. “I know it can feel like you’re in a trap with no way out,” I tell her.

Rely on the internet for how you look at the world, though, and you’ll see the worst side of people represented far too much.”

one thing I know about people from deep personal experience: they’re happy to jump on the hate train if it makes them feel like fucking heroes.

we all make our own hells out of our pasts;