Chapter 5: What Was in the Group Chat
He found the channel the next morning before breakfast.
I was in the bathroom when I heard him say my name — not loudly, just once, with a particular flatness that I recognized as the sound he makes when something is worse than he prepared for.
I came out and he handed me his phone.
The channel had forty-three videos.
The oldest was dated fourteen months ago.
The most recent was four days before we left for this trip.
I scrolled through the titles without watching anything.
That was enough.
"How many subscribers?" I said.
"It's unlisted, so no public count.
But the group chat Ethan mentioned — I found a version of it on a forum.
Different boys, same channel link.
There are threads like this in at least six schools."
I set the phone down on the bed.
"Six schools," I said.
"That we know of."
I sat down.
"Does Tyler's family know he's making these?"
"I don't know yet.
I want to call the school on Monday.
But I also want to talk to Donna first.
She works in safeguarding — she'll know the right process."
I'd forgotten that about Donna.
She'd been in her current role for three years and I'd never once connected it to anything in my own life.
It had always seemed like something that happened to other families.
"She knew something was wrong last night," I said.
"On the walk.
She said boys don't come up with this on their own."
"She was right."
He picked up his phone again.
"There's one more thing."
I looked at him.
"One of the videos," he said.
"It's titled 'Holiday Edition.' It was posted eleven days ago."
Eleven days ago was two days before we arrived here.
"Ethan mentioned screenshots of other people's moms," I said slowly.
"Yes."
"Is it—"
"I don't know yet.
I haven't watched it.
I wanted to tell you first."
We looked at each other across the hotel room.
"Watch it," I said.
He pressed play.
He held the phone so we could both see.
It was Tyler.
Sixteen years old, sitting in what looked like his bedroom, speaking directly to the camera with the easy confidence of someone who had done this many times.
The video was eight minutes long.
The first four were the same content Ethan had described — commentary about women in public, about standards, about embarrassment.
Then Tyler held up his phone and started showing screenshots.
Most of them were strangers.
Women on beaches, women at restaurants, women walking in cities.
Each one came with a comment from Tyler and laughter from whoever was off-camera.
The seventh screenshot made my husband pause the video.
It was a woman on a promenade.
Sunglasses pushed up into her hair.
A bag being moved behind her back.
Her arm out, calling someone over.
It was me.
The photo had been taken from a distance, slightly behind and to the left.
I hadn't seen anyone with a phone.
I hadn't been looking.
Tyler's voice on the video said: "This is what I'm talking about.
This is exactly what I'm talking about."
My husband set the phone face-down on the bed.
Neither of us spoke.
Outside, I could hear the sea.
I could hear someone laughing on a balcony two floors up.
Ordinary holiday sounds, completely unchanged.
"He was there," I said.
"Tyler was on the promenade."
"Yes."
"He followed us?
Or was it a coincidence?"
"I don't know." My husband's voice was very controlled.
"But that photo was taken before Ethan said anything.
Which means—"
"Which means Ethan may have known Tyler was there," I said.
The room was very quiet.
Then my husband picked up his phone again.
May you like
Not to watch the video.
To call Donna.
