The Forgotten Child

by Melissa Erin Jackson

  Instead, the message came from a nonsensical address made up of seemingly random numbers and letters. She would’ve deleted it entirely had it not been for the subject line: “My little medium has been busy.”

  Heart hammering, she took a screenshot of the address to look up later, then she opened the message, hoping it wasn’t loaded with viruses that made her phone explode.

  The text in the body of the email said, “What are you up to Riley?” Attached were five pictures, each making her feel more and more nauseous than the last. The back of the Laughing Tiger with Frank walking her to her car; the front of Jade’s house; the front of her parents’ house; the outside of Ridgeview Estates; a cropped picture showing her handwriting in the guestbook the day she visited Walter.

  She went through them a second time, searching for any sign of people in the middle three pictures, but there was only her in the first one.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” she muttered. “Sorry, Baxter.” Then she grabbed him, dropped him on the couch, and hurried to the bathroom where the shower had just turned off. She darted in without knocking.

  Michael, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs, yelped and froze in the middle of toweling off his hair. She was too scared out of her mind to admire the view.

  “I just got this,” she said, thrusting the phone in his face.

  He cursed under his breath as he clicked through the pictures.

  “The middle two are Jade’s and my parents’ houses,” she said. “He’s fucking following me.”

  “You gotta tell that cop you’re in contact with. Show him this. That first picture is proof he’s watching you.”

  “Dammit.”

  Walking out of the bathroom, she called Detective Howard, but ended up at his voicemail again. She hung up without leaving a message, forwarding the email to him instead.

  With the slats on Michael’s blinds pulled apart, she peered out. Francis wasn’t standing there, arms crossed, like the Big Bad in a horror movie. Not that she expected him to be. But, even still, she didn’t know what his car looked like. He could be out there.

  “This seems like a ridiculous question,” Michael said as he walked into the living room, startling her. She turned away from the window. “But, uh … you still want to go to breakfast?”

  No. She wanted to hide. But she couldn’t stay locked up in Michael’s house forever. She had friends and a family and a job.

  Remembering her own words to Mindy, telling her to not to let Francis ruin her life, she nodded.

  Riley scanned the cars lining the quiet street. Once they were in his car, headed for a nearby breakfast diner, she glanced behind them every minute or so, despite not knowing what she was looking for. She resigned herself to the fact that Francis probably knew Michael wasn’t actually Jansen Trombley.

  Francis was the co-owner of a small, successful tech firm—how did he have time to follow her around town at all hours of the day? Had he figured out who Walter Palmer was? Did he know she knew what he’d done to Renee?

  Her stomach churned.

  The feel of the car stopping snapped her out of her thoughts. They’d arrived at the diner.

  “You okay?” Michael asked.

  “Not really,” she said, glancing over at him and offering the best smile she could muster. “But I’m desperate for French toast.”

  “Then French toast you shall have.”

  The compact diner only allowed a narrow walking space between the booths lining the wall of windows to the left, and the long counter to the right. People talked, waitresses called orders to the cooks, silverware clanked on plates, and the faint hum of some top 40 radio station tried to be heard over the din. It smelled like bacon, powdered sugar, and coffee.

  She loved it.

  The fifteen-minute wait was spent in silence, Riley standing directly in front of Michael—back to his chest—to make room for those also waiting in the cramped space.

  Her mind had gone into overdrive trying to figure out the best course. Who knew how often Francis was watching her? Was he in the parking lot now? If she went to the police this minute, he could follow her there too—get spooked and retaliate. He’d stalked and killed before; it was naïve to think he’d grown out of it.

  Detective Howard had said it himself: if Francis had gotten away with murder in the past, the longer he went without getting caught made him both more confident and paranoid.

  If Francis truly thought Riley was a threat to his freedom, what would he be willing to do to quell the threat? God, he knew where her parents and Jade lived.

  Pulling out her phone, she looked through the pictures again. Since she was in her uniform in the first one, it was impossible to tell what day it had been. But something occurred to her about the others.

  The waitress called their name, momentarily distracting her as they made their way down the narrow walkway just as another couple was heading the opposite way to pay. Riley attempted to make more room for the other pair and accidentally whacked a guy sitting at the counter in the head with her purse. Luckily, he caught his glass of orange juice before he knocked it over.

  Michael suppressed a smile when they sat down.

  “What?” she said, tossing the offending bag onto the seat beside her.

  “You get really clumsy when you’re flustered.”

  She attempted to glare at him.

  “What’s up? It’s not just getting the email …”

  Taking out her phone, she pulled up the pictures and then swung it around on the tabletop so it faced him. She navigated the screen upside down. “When I went to Jade and my parents’ house this week, it was early evening.”

  He bent forward, looking at the phone with his hands under the table. His gaze flicked up to hers. “And?”

  “And these were clearly taken during the day,” she said. “Why show me pictures of places I’d been, but after the fact?”

  Michael shrugged. “To show that he could go back any time he wanted?”

  “Why am I only in the first one?” she asked. “And …” She opened the last picture. “There’s a picture of the old folks’ home—also during the day—but he purposefully cropped the guestbook photo. Why?”

  Michael stared at it a moment, then shrugged.

  “If you zoom in, there’s a little bit of handwriting that’s below mine. If he took the picture the next day, or even days later, someone would’ve signed in under me. The page of the book had only been half filled and there were guests from last week still on that one page. They don’t get a ton of traffic.”

  “So, what, he cropped it so it wasn’t obvious that he went there well after you, and not the same day?”

  “Maybe?” she said. “Thinking he could be out there right this second is scarier than thinking he might be here sometime in the future even if I’m not.”

  “So you’re thinking he actually followed you to the Laughing Tiger since he knew when to find you there, but didn’t go to the other places?”

  Michael always tried to humor her, but he looked at her now like maybe she’d lost it.

  “In the picture of my parents’ house, neither car is in the driveway. Which means this was likely taken in the middle of the day when they were at work,” she said. “He might not even know who lives there. Just knows I was there and that seeing the house alone would scare me.”

  She was about to say something else, but the waitress showed up to take their order. Riley clicked out of her email and powered off the screen.

  After they ordered, Michael said, “So what’s your theory?”

  She’d been formulating said theory as she talked it out with him, and now that she had to say it out loud, she felt a little ill. “I think there’s a tracker on my car.”

  Michael stared at her. “Wait, what?”

  “I thought it was weird that he made a point to come all the way to the restaurant an hour out from where he lived only to talk to me for like fifteen minutes and then leave. But what if he’d been watching the parkin
g lot for me to show up for my shift, figured out what car was mine by seeing me get out of it, then slapped on a tracker when the lot was deserted? He came to see me in person likely because he knew it’d rattle me and he gets off on stuff like that.”

  “Then he went back to the places he knew you’d been,” Michael said, “and took pictures to let you know he’d been there too.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Damn.”

  “I mean, I could be wrong,” she said. “But we should check my car later.”

  “I hate this guy.”

  “I’m not crazy about him either,” she said. “But if I’m right, at least there’s some comfort that he’s not lurking around at all hours. He’s letting the tracker do that.”

  The waitress brought them their food and they fell silent for a while as they ate. Though her French toast was even better than she expected, she had to force it down after the first few bites. She kept thinking about a device on her car and Francis getting updates on his phone about her every move. Thankfully, the same fate hadn’t befallen Mindy, given her co-worker’s unwillingness to tell Francis her schedule. But if Riley found a tracker, she’d warn Mindy anyway.

  Her leg jiggled uncontrollably on the ride back. She typed the random-looking email address into a search engine. It was a temporary “guerrilla” address. Emails sent from one were set to erase from the guerilla inbox after an hour so there would be no way to prove who the email had come from. Maybe an FBI tech whiz could figure out the IP address of the sender or some other technological magic she didn’t understand, but the FBI would not be helping her with Francis Hank Carras.

  What good would that email in Detective Howard’s box do if there was no way to prove Francis had sent it? Even if the detective believed her story, he couldn’t do anything to Francis based solely on her word.

  When they got back to Michael’s apartment, they walked to the guest parking area a few slots away. They stood behind her car, arms crossed, like they disapproved of the car’s actions. How had she let creepy-ass Francis do this to her? Why hadn’t she told Riley what happened?

  She patted her car’s trunk. “It’s not your fault, hon.”

  Michael ignored that. “Where would it be? What do they look like?”

  A quick internet search turned up thin, box-like devices. Most were black. “In TV shows, people just slap them on the underside of cars. A lot of them are magnetized.”

  Michael dropped to the ground and wiggled as far as he could under the trunk on his back, head first. Riley stood there chewing on a thumbnail, not sure if she wanted to be right or not.

  “I think I found it!”

  Crap. “Wait … don’t touch it. Scoot over.” Riley dropped her purse by one of the back tires, then inched her head under the trunk, too, the side of her body flush with Michael’s.

  And there it was: a thin black box with a very dull green light, and the word “SPYMASTER” printed on the front. The font was also black and slightly raised, but was legible enough.

  “Subtle,” she said.

  “What do we do with it? If we take it off and leave it in the bushes or something, he’ll eventually figure out you took it off the car, right? Like if he gets suspicious about why you haven’t been home?”

  “Yeah, but what’ll he do next if he realizes this tactic of keeping tabs on me isn’t working anymore?”

  “I mean, you’re not thinking of leaving it on, are you?”

  “Maybe?” When she looked at him, she realized how odd it was to continue the conversation while lying on the pavement partially under her car. After getting back to their feet and brushing each other off, she said, “I could keep going to work like normal, but then maybe take taxis or something for everywhere else? He’ll just think I’m at home. Or I can park the car at the Albuquerque Life lot sometimes and then take a taxi somewhere for a few hours then go back to get it later.”

  “Until when?”

  “Until I hear from Detective Howard?”

  “Why not just tell him about the tracker now?” he asked.

  Riley thought of all the times she’d called authorities about things less than dire: non-fatal car accidents, rowdy neighbors, suspicious people wandering the neighborhood. They always said they’d be on their way and never showed, or arrived well after the problem had worked itself out. Unless there was severe property damage or someone was bleeding or dead, no one would show up.

  Riley would tell them she was sure it was Hank. Based on what? they’d ask. He was creepy and sent her an email of pictures making it clear he was following her. But there was no way to prove he’d sent it, and the email he’d sent would have disappeared off Guerrilla Mail’s servers by now. Maybe there would be prints on the tracker. Maybe he paid for it with a credit card. But maybe he used gloves and paid in cash. Then what?

  They’d likely assume Hank was a jilted lover and would tell her to cease all contact with the guy. She had no proof he put the tracker there—though she was certain it couldn’t be anyone else. But why would they believe her? She had zero evidence to back up her claim other than gut instinct. And if the tracker was somehow linked to him, what would happen then? The police would let him know he had to leave her alone? What if he retaliated?

  Riley sighed. “I’ll call someone about it tomorrow.”

  “I don’t like any of this,” Michael said, glaring at the trunk of her car.

  She got up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “I know.”

  Michael stayed with her that night—even though she said it wasn’t necessary—but she found it hard to sleep. Hank likely wasn’t lurking in the apartment complex. She was on the second floor, so he also probably wasn’t peering into her windows at night. But he’d gotten into her head. He was out there.

  As she lay awake in bed, listening to the soft breathing of Michael beside her, she thought she could make out the silhouette of a small figure by her window. It shimmered around the edges, both separate from and blurring into the shadows in her room. An overwhelming sense of sadness washed over her as she looked that that flickering image. She couldn’t tell if the emotion came from her or Pete. Maybe both.

  She’d texted Mindy that afternoon to warn her to be extra cautious and to check her car too, just in case. Riley hadn’t heard from her again after she said, I’m freaking out.

  Jade and her parents were warned, too. Riley’s phone call with her mother had been so long, her throat was sore by the time she finally hung up.

  The next day, thanks to a lull in customers, she was able to take a rare, short “cigarette break” around four to make a call about the tracker. Detective Howard was based out of Santa Fe, well over an hour away. Even if he had advice for her, she knew he’d tell her to contact a local police station, as he couldn’t do much for her.

  Riley went through a series of automated prompts before being put on hold. After half a century, a friendly woman answered. “This is Joanne. How can I help you?”

  “Uh … hi,” Riley said, shooting a look at nosey-ass Roberto who stood outside with her, smoking an actual cigarette and trying to act like he was engrossed with his phone, not listening to her every word. “So … I think I have a stalker.”

  “Oh. That’s got to be scary,” she said, voice flat. “What makes you think you’re being followed?”

  Riley told her about the guerilla email.

  The woman was silent for a moment. “Did you try to do a reverse email search to see where it came from?”

  “No,” she said. “You can’t trace it—that’s the whole point.”

  “And how do you know this man?”

  How did she know him? “He’s … uh … someone who used to be friends with a friend of mine.” Wow, Ry, way to be vague.

  Joanne let out a sound that implied she thought this “friend” was Riley herself. “What else has he done other than send you this email?”

  “I think he put a tracker on my car.”

  Joanne’s tone turned a little more serious. “Y
ou know for sure it was him who put it there?”

  “I can’t know for sure, but it couldn’t have been anyone else,” she said. “He came to my work unannounced too.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “The Laughing Tiger,” she said. “It’s a dim sum restaurant. He came towards the end of my shift and asked to sit in my section. I think that’s the night he put the tracker on my car.”

  “And how long ago was this?”

  “Three weeks.”

  Joanne fell silent again. “Had the tracker been there for that long before you realized it was there?”

  Riley’s cheeks flamed. “Yes.”

  “What has he done in the days since he put the tracker there?”

  “Other than send the email—nothing.”

  Joanne was fond of long-ass pauses. “Without anything more solid than this, I don’t think there is much the police can do, to be quite honest. The best thing would be to bring the tracker into your local station—perhaps they can figure out where the device came from and contact the man once they know he’s the one who purchased it. The email might be helpful for an officer to see too. You can file a report.”

  Riley sighed. “Okay, thanks.”

  “Sure thing, honey,” she said. “Stay safe.”

  Riley hung up and sat back hard in her chair, ignoring Roberto whose gaze bored holes in the side of her head. Joanne had confirmed something for Riley. Francis hadn’t made a move since the email, so there was no reason to think he would suddenly come after her violently simply because she knew he was keeping tabs on her now. Her knowledge had changed, his hadn’t.

  But that wasn’t terribly comforting.

  By the end of her shift, after Frank had walked her to her car, Riley blearily checked her messages, finding the usual assortment of texts from Jade, Michael, and Rochelle. And then she saw an email from Nina.

  She’d almost forgotten about her entirely.

  Hey Riley,

  My resources about the ranch aren’t that extensive, honestly. What you can find publicly about the place is the extent of my knowledge, too. The Fredricks (the owners of the ranch house) don’t seem to know that much either. I emailed Porter Fredricks’ daughter to ask if “dark room” or “Hank” meant anything to her and she said no. She asked her father, too. No dice there either.