“Someone else was at the lake,” she said slowly. “Filming. That night.”
“Or”Amara hesitated, and something in her hesitation made Zara look up. “Or it’s the same person. The one sending the messages. And they didn’t just watch this time. They posted it.”
The two things sat side by side and didn’t fit together cleanly, and Zara didn’t have the bandwidth to make them fit. She just stared at the comments scrolling past, at strangers constructing an entire narrative about her manipulative, attention-seeking, convenient built from a single private moment that had been stolen and handed to the internet.
By noon, it had a name. Someone had started calling it Lakegate, because apparently every scandal needed a gate now, and the campus gossip accounts had taken the bait the way Zara had learned
