“For a second I thought—”

“I know.” He thought cancer. “It’s just . . . I got some bad news today about one of my online friends.”

“I’m sorry. What happened?”

She hesitates, remembering the first time she’d ever introduced him to Meredith—online, of course.

She remembers how Rob studied the photo of a smiling woman with grayish blond hair and glasses, and read over the brief bio beneath it.

“How do you know that’s really her?” he asked—of course he did, because as an attorney, he rarely accepts anything at face value.

“Because this is her Web page.”

“No, I mean . . . anyone can post any picture online and claim it as their own. For all you know, this Meredith person might actually be a twenty-year-old tattooed jailbird.”

“She’s not. This is her.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Meredith’s entries resonated too sharply to be anything but authentic.

“What happened?” Rob asks again, and he strokes Landry’s hair while she tells him the tragic news, shaking his head and wearing a grave expression.

“So her husband was away on business when it happened?”

“Not on business—he was out of town taking care of his mother.”

“How do you know that?”

“She told me.”

“She told you—or she wrote about it online?”

Realizing where he’s going with this line of questioning, she bristles. “She blogged about it.”

Rob shakes his head but says nothing.

He’s always worrying about what the kids are doing online, equating social networking Web sites with letting them walk into a room filled with predators.

Landry opens her mouth to tell him that Meredith wasn’t murdered because she blogged personal details about her life, then closes it again.

Oh, really? How can you be so sure about that?

She’d been assuming that her friend had been killed by an intruder who randomly broke into her house . . .

But there is a chance—however slight—that Meredith might have been targeted by someone who knew her, or at least, knew that her husband was out of town, leaving her alone and vulnerable.

Maybe he overheard Meredith talking about it at the supermarket, or in a restaurant, or . . .

Or maybe he read it on her blog.

It’s not very likely—but it could have happened, she supposes.

“Her husband must be devastated,” Rob says.

“I’m sure he is. And she has kids—they’re grown and married. Two sons and a daughter. There are grandchildren, too. Three, I think, with another one due in October. She called them her stinkerdoodles.” She smiles, remembering the affection Meredith had for her growing family.

“She wrote all of that on the Internet?”

“Yes, but . . . it’s not like that. We’re basically just friends who share things online, just like friends do in person.”

“But in person, we’re careful about what we say when other people can overhear. Online, it’s easy to forget that there’s an audience. People shouldn’t post anything they wouldn’t be comfortable sharing with millions of perfect strangers, including opportunistic rapists and murderers.”

“I would consider rapists and murderers imperfect strangers, wouldn’t you?” she quips to lighten the topic.

He offers a sort-of smile, but he’s still shaking his head. “It’s just basic Internet Safety 101. You’re inviting trouble when you—”

“Are you saying Meredith brought this on herself?” she cuts in. So much for lightening things up.

“No. I’m just saying . . . I’m worried. I’ve seen social networkers post way too much personal information.”

“So have I. But I’ve never put down our last name or even our first names, or where we live . . .”

No, but many of the other bloggers—Meredith included—do share all those details. Rather than calling her spouse and children DH, DS, and DD—widely used Internet shorthand for Dear Husband, Darling Son, and Darling Daughter—Meredith referred to her family members by their first names. Hank was her husband; her kids were Neal, Teddy, and Beck, short for Rebecca. She occasionally posted photos, too . . .

Landry feels sick to her stomach remembering that Meredith had proudly posted pictures of her master bedroom last fall, with the new king-sized bed and bedding and curtains she’d just bought on sale at Macy’s.

And then there was a more recent picture accompanied by a caption: View of our home, sweet home from the street with the lilacs in full bloom.

There were plenty of compliments in the comments section from the usual followers: Pretty! . . . Love Lilacs! . . . Ooh, wish it was scratch and sniff!

But how many other pairs of eyes had also seen the photo of the modest house? How many silent lurkers had noticed the dense shrub borders along the property lines, which, as Meredith had cheerfully pointed out to her online friends, offered privacy and shielded her house from the neighbors’ views?

Landry thinks back over her own posts, wondering if she’s inadvertently been just as careless.

“You didn’t write on your blog that I’m going away on a golf outing Father’s Day weekend, did you?” asks Rob the mind-reader.

“Of course not!”

She did, however, mention it to Meredith in a private message exchange just last week. They were going back and forth about how having a husband away can be a mixed blessing—more so, Meredith thought, when you have kids still at home.

It’s kind of lonely when you’re the only one rattling around the house day after day—well, mostly, night after night, Meredith wrote, almost echoing what she’d written in her blog.

Exactly—don’t think I’m a big baby, she wrote back, but sometimes I still get scared at night when Rob’s away!

Now, remembering that exchange, she feels a twinge of guilt. It was only Meredith—but what if it had been someone else? Someone she trusted, but shouldn’t have?

Rob is looking a little guilty himself. “Sorry, I know you wouldn’t write something that personal on the blog. You’re pretty good about keeping things nonspecific.”

“I am. So please don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried. Not about myself.”

No. He worries about her.

Until she got sick, she was okay with that—with letting him protect her, take care of her.

But cancer changed that. Made her stronger, more determined to take care of herself, and . . .

More aware that Rob can’t protect her. He can want to, and he can try, but her big strong husband isn’t in charge after all. He—and she, for all those years—only wanted to believe that he was.

Stronger, more independent and self-aware . . .

Sometimes she still bristles when Rob assumes the old role of protector, and she knows it bothers him when she won’t let him.

She changes the subject, asking about his workday, his golf game, and who was at the club tonight. As he tells her, she manages to ask questions in all the right places, and to laugh at quips she knows are meant to make her laugh, though she doesn’t really comprehend a word he’s saying.

This is how it was back when she was sick, going through the motions of ordinary conversation.

Later—much later, long after the kids are home and the house is quiet, Landry lies awake in bed staring into the dark, still preoccupied with Meredith’s death and wondering why Elena never called. She must have gotten home too late.

Uneasily remembering what Rob said, Landry wants to ask her whether she thinks there’s any chance some online predator might have deliberately targeted Meredith.

Are the police also considering that angle?

Probably. They must be going through the blog word for word, looking for clues.

Meredith was really open, sharing information that Landry would never have put out there for just anyone to see.

But that doesn’t mean you haven’t let your guard down, too, from time to time.