Excerpt from We Had to Remove This Post by Hanna Bervoets, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

I knew what I was getting myself into. I knew what I was doing, and I was pretty damn good at it. I still remember all the rules from back then and I still apply them sometimes, it happens automatically, an occupational hazard—whether it's TV shows, video clips, or just things I see in my everyday life. That woman getting knocked off her scooter—can you put that up online? Not if you can see blood. If the situation is clearly comical, then yes. If there's sadism involved, no. If what's being shown serves an educational purpose, yes, and ding ding ding, we have a winner, because that exit to the museum parking lot is a hot mess. "They really need to fix that," as long as I put that in the caption, it's allowed—see, that's the kind of thing I'm thinking about as I tear off four tickets for a visitor. And no, it's not always pleasant having those rules rattling around in my head, but you know what? Part of me is still proud of how well I knew the guidelines. That's just not what you want to hear, is it?

I haven't replied to any of your emails. I haven't returned any of your calls, either—I thought you would have gotten the message by now. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to join the other plaintiffs. I don't want to be involved in your lawsuit. But you just keep calling and calling, and today I received your second letter (very elegant handwriting you have, Mr. Stitic).

It's not that I don't understand. You're a lawyer, it's your job to keep insisting, and you're pretty well versed in the art of persuasion—don't think I haven't noticed how your tone has gotten a little chummier with each message. You know I'm listening, you know I'm getting used to the sound of your voice, so you've stopped calling me "Ms. Kayleigh" and are suddenly talking about "the prospect of a decent sum of money," and to be honest I think it's pretty creepy that you know how badly I could use a decent sum of money. I'm sure my former colleagues have told you about my debts, and I wonder how that comports with the applicable privacy regulations, but hey, I'm sure you know that better than me.

Two more years at the museum and I will have paid it all off. That is, if I work overtime during the holidays, when the pay's better, so here's hoping I get shifts on Easter and Boxing Day too, because no, there's no way I'm going to join in with this thing, though I understand why my former colleagues have.

I read that Robert sleeps with his taser these days, afraid that terrorists will come and kidnap him at night (the names in that newspaper article had been changed, but "Timothy" can only be Robert, I'm sure of it). That "Nataly" can't handle loud noises, bright lights, or sudden movement in her peripheral vision (there were a bunch of people who struggled with that, so I'm not sure who Nataly is). I know that many of my former colleagues flinch when someone comes up behind them in the supermarket, that they lie in bed until after dark and then stay up till it's light—too exhausted to start a new job, they see things, day and night, the same things I don't like to talk about either, and I'm sorry to say that some of those symptoms aren't exactly foreign to me. And yes, just like many of my former colleagues, I left Hexa of my own accord—so again, I understand why you've come knocking on my door.

But for you to understand why I won't be taking you up on your offer, there's something you need to know about me first. The images that keep me up at night, Mr. Stitic, aren't the gruesome pictures of bleeding teenagers, or the videos of stabbings or decapitations. No, what keeps me awake are images of Sigrid, my dearest former colleague. Sigrid held up against a wall, limp and gasping for air—those are the images that I would like to forget.

So I'm writing to you with a proposal. See it as a deal—a settlement. I'll tell you about my months at Hexa, about my duties, the rules, the famously deplorable working conditions—things, in short, that are sure to interest you.

Excerpted from We Had to Remove This Post by Hanna Bervoets. Copyright © 2022 by Hanna Bervoets. Excerpted by permission of Mariner Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.