Twice Burned: An American Resurrection Thriller / Chapter 4: The Digital Mob Returns
Twice Burned: An American Resurrection Thriller

Twice Burned: An American Resurrection Thriller

Author: Anna Miller

Chapter 4: The Digital Mob Returns

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After the police left, I stopped Danielle. She glared at me, cheeks blotchy from crying or the cold. I tried to keep my cool: “Are you in some kind of trouble? If you need help, I can do what I can. Just don’t go down the wrong path.”

She slapped me, hard. “What do you take me for? You disgusting jerk! I won’t let you get away with assaulting me. I want you to pay with your life!” She stormed off, leaving muddy footprints. My chest was tight with rage. None of this made sense.

If she’s out to ruin me, she picked the wrong guy this time. I’m not going down without a fight.

Back at my apartment, I changed my usual low profile and posted screenshots of my years of donations online—old emails, receipts, anything to show my character. I’d always donated anonymously, never wanting thanks, but now I needed every scrap of goodwill I could muster. Desperation makes you do things you never thought you’d do. I hit “post” and waited, heart pounding.

A lot of people praised me: “Thank you for caring!” “We need more men like you!” A few called me stingy or accused me of showing off. I didn’t care. Then, the next day, my biggest fear came true—Danielle posted a video, slandering me again.

She told her version, painting herself as the perfect victim and me as the monster. My name, job, and photo flashed on screen. My phone blew up—coworkers, my landlord, even strangers. People dug up my donation history, twisted every detail. Some messaged me for the truth. I uploaded the ladies’ testimonies, trying to prove I wasn’t at the scene. For a moment, the hateful comments slowed.

But she doubled down, posting even nastier accusations—mocking my job, my income, claiming my donations were really payments for sex. The mob didn’t need much—they ran with her story. I started sleeping with my phone under my pillow, baseball bat by the door.

I called the cops, contacted students I’d helped. They posted in my defense, sharing old emails, thank-you notes, and videos. A small army of decent people pieced together the truth, but the trolls kept ranting, hungry for drama. Gradually, the tide turned. Some even apologized. My inbox filled with cautious support.

Then the police called: “Mike, we need you to come in. The girl’s got something that puts you at the scene.” My stomach dropped. I thought it was over. Instead, it was just beginning.

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