The Secrets of a Stranger in My Inbox

The first one came after my debut thriller hit shelves. A simple message request on Instagram that started with “I know you don’t know me, but I had to tell someone…”

What followed was a three-paragraph confession about how this person had been secretly keeping tabs on their ex for two years. Nothing illegal—just social media lurking and occasional drive-bys of their house—but detailed enough that I read it twice, wondering if this was some weird joke.

It wasn’t.

Since then, my inbox has become a strange confessional booth. Something about writing thrillers apparently signals to complete strangers that I’m the perfect person to tell their secrets to. Like the fact I can write a convincing stalker character means I’ll understand their own boundary issues.

There was the woman who sent me a 1,500-word email about how she’d been stealing small things from her mother-in-law’s house for years. Nothing valuable—just little knick-knacks and kitchen utensils—because her mother-in-law had been “passive-aggressive” when they first met. She’d created an elaborate hiding spot in her own basement for these items and sometimes took them out to look at them. She signed off with “I’ve never told ANYONE this before. Thanks for listening!”

But… I hadn’t agreed to listen? I just wrote a book?

My personal favorite was the guy who messaged me after reading A Glimpse of Us to tell me he’d created a fake social media account to keep tabs on a woman he’d gone on two dates with three years ago. “It’s not weird though, because I don’t interact with any of her posts. I just like to know she’s doing okay.” Sir, that is literally the definition of weird.

I never know how to respond to these messages. Do I play therapist? (“And how does this secret surveillance make you feel?”) Do I tell them that technically, what they’re describing is the beginning of a restraining order?

Usually, I go with: “Thank you for sharing your story with me. I hope writing this out was helpful for you. I’d encourage you to speak with someone professionally if these feelings are causing distress.”

Translation: Please find an actual therapist because I am supremely unqualified for this.

My writer friends say they get weird messages too, but nothing like this constant stream of confessions. The romance writers get steamy fan fiction. The fantasy authors get elaborate theories about their world-building. I get people admitting they’ve been checking their neighbor’s mail when they’re not home.

Maybe there’s something about psychological thrillers that makes readers believe the author must understand the darker impulses we all occasionally feel. Or maybe they assume I won’t judge because I’ve written characters who do much worse things.

The strangest part? Sometimes these messages spark story ideas. Not because I’d ever use someone’s actual confession (absolutely not), but because they remind me how the most ordinary-seeming people carry secrets. How the line between normal curiosity and unhealthy obsession can blur so easily. How we’re all just one bad day away from decisions we’d never want public.

So to all the strangers who’ve trusted me with your secrets: I hope you found the release you were looking for by hitting “send.” I hope you eventually found someone qualified to talk to about these feelings. And I hope you understand that while I appreciate your trust, I’m just a person who makes up stories for a living.

But maybe check if your behavior would fit comfortably in the first chapter of a thriller. If it would… that might be a sign to rethink some choices.