The Forgotten Child

by Melissa Erin Jackson

  “Totally.”

  They stopped for an early dinner in Albuquerque, fighting to discuss everything but the weirdness of that afternoon. Of the last two weeks.

  A thrift shop sat in the same complex as the restaurant, and after dinner they walked hand in hand down the aisles, looking at the random collection of odds and ends. Michael’s favorite was a porcelain cookie jar in the shape of a vintage clown, which was already horrifying in its own right—especially since one eye was missing, the paint rubbed clean off—but when you opened it, a voice yelled “Hands off my cookies!” followed by a cackle straight out of nightmares. It startled him so much the first time, he screamed and nearly dropped the lid. Then he would have had to buy the awful thing.

  Riley laughed so hard she cried.

  Her favorite was a ceramic plate with two humanoid horses on it. They both wore pink, frilly tutus and one had a lock of the other’s mane in its hoof/hand. Both creatures looked seductively out at their audience.

  “What the hell?” Michael asked as he stared at it over her shoulder.

  “I have so many questions,” she said, staring at it. The plate itself was white, the edge lined with an uneven circle of gold.

  “You want it?”

  “Yes! But maybe just so I can smash it in the parking lot.”

  “Done!” he said, taking it from her and turning it over as they headed for the counter. “It’s five dollars. I’m willing to pay any expense for my girl.”

  She laughed, ignoring the goofy flutter she got from hearing “my girl,” and looped her arm through his.

  They had just climbed into his car, her hideous plate wrapped in newspaper and stuffed in her purse, when she said, “You want to hang out at my place for a little bit? I don’t have to work tomorrow. We can watch a movie or something.”

  He grinned. “Yes. That. Let’s do that.”

  Their last date had been almost a week ago—on Sunday. They’d been on another one of their epic all-day dates, which ended at a drive-in closer to him. Riley wasn’t sure she even saw the opening credits, because the moment it got dark enough for them to start the movie, she was on him.

  She’d startled him, she knew, but some crazed need to be as close to him as possible sent her over the center console and into his lap, whacking her knee on his seatbelt clip, but she’d been too focused on kissing him to notice until later.

  After a few seconds, she’d pulled away, both of them breathing hard. “Sorry.”

  “Good god, woman, if there was ever a thing not to apologize for …”

  They’d been slightly less frantic after that. She’d unbuttoned his shirt, wanting her hands on his bare chest, and he’d slipped his hands up her back to unclasp her bra.

  When his fingers had trailed down to the button on her jeans, however, she’d stilled.

  So had he. “Too fast?”

  “Just … it’s been a while and maybe it shouldn’t happen in a car.”

  Placing his hands on her hips, he’d said, “Did you want to watch the movie or—”

  “Or—that one. Whatever that is.”

  “My place.”

  She’d climbed off his lap and he’d given the front of his pants a couple of awkward tugs.

  But by the time they’d gotten out of the parking lot—which had taken forever, as the road out was blocked by a string of cars trying to get in—and to his place, she’d lost her nerve.

  Hooking up with someone new—which she’d only done two other times—always made her impossibly nervous. Plus, he’d mentioned once that his ex was “toxic.” Wasn’t that on the same spectrum as “passionate”? The woman likely had been a vixen in the sack. Riley had the sexual prowess of a sloth.

  Currently, she was fairly certain she wouldn’t chicken out. Sometime during the course of wandering the thrift shop with him, she’d realized how much she liked the idea of being “his girl.”

  Once they got to her apartment, they spent the next ten minutes finding the perfect display location for the creeptastic ballerina horse plate.

  They stood near her bookshelf staring at the tutued horse-people.

  “I hate it so much,” he said.

  “Me too.”

  “Did you see the little set of numbers near the signature? It says 4 of 15. Does that mean there are fifteen nightmare horse plates?” He took the plate from its new home and flipped it over, squinting at the small writing on the back and scratching off the bright orange price tag. “Oh! It says this is part of the barnyard series.”

  Eyes wide, she said, “What if there are, like, horse mugs and tiny cake plates?”

  “What if,” he said, turning the plate back again, revealing the horse-people, “there are more plates? Creepy sheep and chickens and cows … if that’s the case, we might have to devote our lives to finding the rest of them.”

  How could she possibly be nervous around this guy? He was just as weird as she was. Safely placing the plate back on its spot on the shelf, she slipped her hand into his and pulled him toward her bedroom.

  “You sure?” he asked. “We can take this slow—”

  She unzipped the back of her pencil skirt and let it hit the ground, puddling at her feet. Then she closed the distance between them, stood on her tiptoes, and pulled his face down to hers. Groaning softly, he wrapped his arms around the backs of her thighs, hoisting her off her feet. She curled her legs around him as he walked them to the side of the bed, slowly lowering her onto the bed.

  Then Michael abruptly let her go and froze, back ramrod straight, eyes wide and scanning.

  Riley propped herself up on her elbows. “What’s wrong?”

  “Is he here? Is he watching?”

  Gaze shifting to her dresser, she stared at Pete’s maroon beanie lying on top. She’d almost forgotten all about him. “No. I mean, he might be nearby, but he’s not watching. He hasn’t manifested in days.”

  “Still?”

  Riley nodded. “If you’re uncomfortable, we don’t have—”

  Lips pressed to hers cut her off. Then they were both fumbling with their own shirts, shaking fingers struggling to undo tiny buttons. Michael got his off first and then helped her with hers. But they were small, pearl-like buttons that were fastened by loops.

  “This is the stupidest shirt I’ve ever seen,” he muttered. “Wouldn’t it be super sexy if I ripped it open and the buttons flew off?”

  “No!” she said laughing. “This is the most expensive shirt I own!”

  When he finally got the last button unfastened, she slipped her arms out of the shirt and tossed it on the floor.

  He kissed her. “I’m setting that thing on fire after you fall asleep,” he whispered against her mouth.

  Unfastening her bra, she tossed that away too. He seemed less concerned about her shirt after that.

  He leaned forward, easing her back until she lay on the comforter. Taking her by the hips, he lifted and scooted her further onto the bed in one fluid motion. He did it so quick, she let out a surprised laugh.

  Climbing on top of her, he took one of her nipples in his mouth. Oh hell. Running her fingers through his hair as she watched his mouth on her, her brain went a little fuzzy.

  “Um …” she said.

  When he stopped to look up at her, the expression on his face almost sent her over the edge. He looked at her like he thought she was the sexiest thing to ever grace the earth. Sexy sloth women for the win!

  “I’m usually all about foreplay, but I need you now,” she said. “I needed you yesterday.”

  He didn’t need to be told twice. Scrambling off the bed, he divested himself of the rest of his clothes and she wiggled out of her underwear.

  “Condom,” she said.

  “Oh!” He practically dove for his pants on the floor. “Condom, condom …”

  When he’d finally slipped inside her, she let out a sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper.

  “I’m not going to last very long if you keep making that sound.”

/>   Her fingertips dug into his back, her feet wrapped around his calves.

  Mouth on her ear, breathing labored, he said, “You feel even better than I thought you would.”

  After only two more thrusts, his breath hitched and he went still. Like he’d stopped breathing altogether. Lord, had Pete taken this moment to not only manifest, but to do so with enough energy that Michael could see him too?

  “Uhh … Michael.”

  “Shh. Don’t talk,” he said. “Don’t even breathe.”

  He sounded pained; she snorted.

  Breath hitching again, his back muscles taut, he said, “For the love of god, please don’t laugh.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Just … uhh … give me a second.” His head rested on her shoulder, his warm breath on her skin.

  After a few long moments, he relaxed slightly. Lifting his head, he kissed her softly on the mouth. She kissed him back, hips rocking into him.

  Mirroring her for two more thrusts, he groaned loudly, his body giving a sharp, violent jerk. “Shit.”

  She bit her bottom lip. “Did you just—”

  “It’s … uh … been a while for me too,” he said, twitching once more. “And you feel really fucking amazing.” Twitch. Silence. Twitch. “I would like to state for the record that I’m mortified.”

  She tried so hard not to burst out laughing that it turned into a silent, internal earthquake. Rising up on one elbow to look at her, he arched a brow, making it even harder to keep it together; his face was bright red, more from embarrassment than exertion. Which made her feel even worse for laughing, but she wasn’t sure she could stop. Her nostrils flared spastically with the effort to keep her laughter contained.

  The faintest hint of a smile graced his mouth. “This isn’t funny, Ms. Thomas. My penis has just failed us both.”

  Riley lost it, laughing so hard she cried for the second time that day.

  He let her cackle like a lunatic, then kissed her nose and climbed off the bed to wash up in the bathroom. She had more or less calmed down by the time he came back. She still lay naked on the bed, arms thrown above her head.

  Lying next to her, he propped himself up on his side. “This was supposed to be the most incredible experience of your life.”

  She snorted, rolling over so she faced him, her head propped up in her hand, too. “I’m just so relieved the pressure is off. Women get performance anxiety too, you know!”

  “Performance!” he said. “You literally just laid there and I was done already.”

  “The first time is supposed to be kind of awkward.” Then she leaned forward and kissed him. “Just means we gotta keep practicing.”

  They talked for a little while and he finally started to relax. At least he was no longer the color of a tomato.

  “So, uh … wanna start that practice … now?” he asked.

  She nodded emphatically.

  Cupping the back of her head in his hand, he kissed her, lowering himself on top of her. He left a trail of kisses down her stomach until he settled between her legs.

  It was only a matter of a minute before it was her turn to cry out and twitch beneath him. He kissed the inside of her thigh after she’d settled; her body felt like it’d melted. She was no longer solid.

  “I hope that makes up for it?” he asked.

  She could only offer a sleepy smile in response.

  And, when he slipped inside her again, he made up for it a second time.

  CHAPTER 19

  Given their vastly different work schedules, Riley had a hard time seeing Michael during the week. He came over to her place after work the following night. They were two insatiable beasts and didn’t get to bed until after three.

  When he came over the following night, he sat on her couch while she hurried to the bathroom to pee shortly after getting home. She emerged in her skimpiest underwear, only to find him snoring softly, head thrown back on the cushions, mouth open.

  Between that, feeling awful for Baxter the cat being left alone night after night, and worrying that Pete would feel abandoned—even if he seemed unable to manifest—she forbade weekday rendezvous at either residence until she managed to get a better schedule.

  Which left her with post-work wind-down time, and her quest to ruin Francis Hank Carras. Every girl needed a hobby, right?

  Since going to his place alone to “uncover the real him” was not even in the realm of possibilities, she needed to get to the guy another way.

  Ever since she’d read the post by Renee’s father, Riley had the niggling idea in the back of her mind that getting the case reopened might be her best bet. Especially since a reformed Francis, eager to confess his past wrongdoings, wasn’t in the realm of possibilities either.

  And, in order to reopen Renee Palmer’s case, she’d need evidence. The police already had a full caseload, with new crimes happening every day, so she’d need something compelling. She knew she was hindered by the fact that she wasn’t related to the victim in any way other than psychically from beyond the grave, and oh sweet lord, no one was going to buy that.

  Her search for microfilm copies of the newspapers that reported the crime proved fruitless. Both the University of New Mexico and the New Mexico State Library had microfilm available online, but their efforts were focused on preserving the papers with historic headlines—like the Roswell crash of 1947. Neither had papers from the timeframe she wanted, and the library had only started cataloguing ones from the 1990s and later.

  By Thursday, she was at a loss. She’d need the officer’s name who’d worked on the case, or a case number—something—when she tried to contact authorities about reopening it. But she couldn’t find anything.

  The “Who Killed Renee Palmer?” tab headline still sat in her browser, wedged between tabs for her email and the 24-hour diner down the street. Clicking on Renee’s site, Riley read the post again. It was ten years old—who knew if her father was still alive. It might have been the mother or one of the brothers who kept sending yearly birthday wishes into the ether.

  An email address was the only option for contacting the family. Maybe the email was no longer active. Maybe her email would just end up in a spam folder. Maybe she was making up excuses because she didn’t want to give this family false hope. Or, even worse, make them think this was all a joke and she was making fun of their thirty-year-old grief.

  She copy-and-pasted the address into the “to” line of a blank email.

  Subject? “I know who killed Renee”? God, was that too morbid? Too sensationalist?

  She settled for “About Renee.” Vague had to be better than morbid.

  The couple who walked the street where their son and nephew had been hit by the speeding van popped into her mind. The pair had been doubtful at first but warmed to the idea of Riley’s gift once she told them details a stranger wouldn’t know. Keeping that in mind, she penned her email.

  Dear Palmer family,

  My name is Riley Thomas. First off, I want to say I’m sorry for your loss—I’m sure that even though it happened over thirty years ago, the pain is still fresh. I’m writing to you for a slightly unconventional reason, and I hope you finish reading before you discount it as a practical joke.

  About two weeks ago, I went to the Jordanville Ranch for one of their paranormal investigation weekends. This, as I’m sure you know, was the house where Orin Jacobs the serial killer had once lived. I know Renee’s body was found near the property line.

  I’m a medium, though not one who practices it professionally. After I left the ranch, I had a dream about Renee. She showed me what happened to her. That dream and the information it provided me has now led me to this email address.

  I wanted Walter Palmer, her father, to know that she used the skills you taught her to defend herself. She managed to get the guy in the face with her pepper spray—though she missed the first time. She berated herself, thinking she’d done her father shame initially when, even after all her lessons, she didn’t
get him on the first try. But she eventually did and fought with everything she had to get away. She did all she could.

  She had a feeling her boyfriend—I’m assuming—Nick would chastise her once she got home because she’d been so consumed with thoughts about her troubles at work that she’d strayed from her usual path. Nick had told her once that she would get lost in the real world one day as a result of being so lost in her head.

  It’s my goal to hopefully help get the case reopened. If there’s any additional information you can provide me, I would greatly appreciate it.

  I just wanted to let you know that Renee hasn’t been forgotten, and that someone who doesn’t even know her would like to help bring closure to your family.

  I hope this email finds you well despite your tragic loss.

  If you are at all uncomfortable that I’ve contacted you, simply don’t reply and I will leave you and your family alone.

  Best wishes,

  Riley Thomas

  She read it about ten times to herself before deeming it worthy. Adding her phone number, she hit send. Holding her breath, she waited for a kickback email informing her that the message was undeliverable. But one didn’t come. After ten minutes, she figured it had gone through. Whether anyone would read it was another matter.

  On Friday, near the end of her shift, one of the waitresses flagged Riley down on her way to bringing refills to her last table. Usually by nine-thirty, sit-down customers tapered off, and it mostly became takeout orders—they were open until ten. The Laughing Tiger was the only upscale dim sum place in the immediate area that also catered to the take-out crowd.

  “Hey, so there’s this guy who just requested to sit in your section,” Emily said.

  Riley groaned. “Really? I thought I was getting out of here soon.”

  Emily grinned. “He’s handsome!”

  Had Michael decided to surprise her? She was supposed to spend the night at his house tonight, since she had Saturday off.

  After depositing the refills at the table of a very drunk older couple who were now making out passionately in a back booth, Riley scanned her section looking for Michael.