by Jenn Faulk
“I don’t suppose you know where that is?”
“I assume it’s with him,” she says, shaking her head. “He never went anywhere without it.”
I sigh again and make a mental note to call Crystal just to see if maybe she knows where it is by any chance, but I’m certain she won’t.
One dead end after another . . .
I close out of my search and stare at Brandon’s desktop. His background picture is of a little girl with blond hair. Her mouth is wide open in surprise as if someone has just presented her with a giant lollipop or cuddly puppy.
“Is this Emma?” I ask.
Catherine nods, swallows hard, and blinks away tears.
I nod back and stare at the picture of Emma some more. She has her mother’s hazel eyes . . .
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit, shaking my head. I study little Emma. I think about her. I think about how I have to find her for Maggie. I think about Crystal’s baby. I think about how I have to find Brandon before Thursday.
Icons are scattered across Emma’s picture. Brandon has arranged them so that none cover her precious little face. They’re typical shortcuts—word processing, spreadsheets, search engines. A halo of icons surrounding Brandon and Maggie’s daughter.
I stare idly at them. Only one of them is actually covering part of the image of Emma. One blue icon, touching only a lock of hair. A little blond curl. I remain lost in thought, trying to figure out what I’m going to do next, wondering if Andrew is going to be available this evening to help me practice telling Maggie that I’m not going to be able to help her after all.
I sigh again and then my eyes slowly focus on that lone icon, touching that little blond curl. It’s labeled: TravelMem.
I remember that Brandon had accessed TravelMem a lot from his phone. I’d never heard of it before, but didn’t investigate it because—based on its name—I’d figured it was probably just a travel-based site of some sort.
Probably. Another assumption. Just like I’d made when I’d determined that all of the transfers had been made from Brandon’s number without verifying that they’d actually originated from his phone . . .
And now I look at this little blue icon and realize that I have screwed up yet again. The picture above the words “TravelMem” is of a notepad and a pencil. It’s a memo app not a travel app. It’s one that can be used from any location—no matter where one might travel.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“You familiar with this?” I ask Catherine as I click on it.
“Oh, yes.” She nods. “Mr. Keller uses that all the time. He says he couldn’t keep his head on straight without it.”
A window opens up, and I quickly determine that this is a rather sophisticated program that does more than just memos. Brandon can handwrite notes or type them, but he can also capture video, websites, or anything else that he wants to keep track of and have all in one place.
“Recent” is the heading at the top of the home page, and I click on it before selecting the last file uploaded on the day he disappeared.
It’s a sound clip.
“He leaves himself a lot of voice notes,” Catherine tells me as I click on it. “I always tease him about how much he talks to himself.”
The file opens, and I turn up the volume. Catherine and I lean toward the speakers.
Then we hear the last thing Brandon recorded before he and Emma disappeared.
~Maggie~
I’m washing dishes and looking over at my phone.
How many mornings have I been doing this? More than I would like.
I should have broken down and called Peter myself, but I trusted him. I gave him time. I’m giving him time even now, as a soapy plate bobs out of the water and I glance over at the phone again.
He’s doing what he can. And what he can do is far more than what I can do right now. I’m holding on to hope that he can hack into whatever and decode whatever and reconfigure whatever and—
Whatever. My technical skills with a computer end at turning it on and surfing the web. I have no idea what Peter’s doing.
But I trust him.
I say it again, just to emphasize it to myself, like I’ve been doing all this time that I’ve been waiting.
I trust him.
No sooner are the words out of my mouth then my phone finally, blessedly, rings.
I nearly drop the plate onto the floor in my rush to grab the phone, answer it, and say this.
“Peter!”
“Uh, hi,” he stammers. “It’s Peter.”
“Hey, I was just thinking about you,” I say. Lamely. It’s the honest truth. I’ve been thinking about him ever since he said he’d keep looking for Emma. It’s been like a rolling montage in my mind. Emma, Peter, Emma, Peter, Brandon suffering some horrible death, Emma, Peter . . .
But it sounds all wrong when I say it out loud. I can almost imagine Tanner smirking at me. Thinking about him, huh?
Before I can correct any wrong assumptions this brought up in his mind, he speaks.
“Listen,” he says. “Um, I’ve got a question for you. Have you ever heard of 8749 Kaula Lane in Bonita Springs?”
Well, good. He didn’t think anything either way.
And Bonita Springs?
“No,” I say, reaching out for a towel to wipe my hands. “I’ve never heard of it. Why?”
“Well, uh, I’m just looking into something and . . .” his voice trails off. “Did Brandon ever mention knowing anyone in Bonita Springs? Did he ever go there that you know of?”
Brandon went a lot of places. He didn’t tell me everything. Obviously.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not sure if he did or not.” Then, a thought occurs to me. A wonderful thought. “Is he in Bonita Springs? Oh, Peter, is Emma still in Florida?! Where is she? What’s the address?!”
As irrational as it is, I’m halfway to my keys, ready to go and get my baby, when he speaks up again.
“Oh, no,” he says, and I can envision him shaking his head. “I don’t . . . I don’t know where Emma is. I’m just . . . I’m just looking into something.”
I take a deep breath. Does Peter have any idea how I can barely function while separated from my child? Does he know what it’s like to be a mother? Does he know how it feels like part of me is missing?
Well, of course, he doesn’t. He doesn’t know the first thing about having a child. He probably doesn’t even know how to change a diaper.
A fleeting image of Peter standing in front of the changing table while Emma laughs at him (like she always does during diaper changes) and he struggles for words and looks around like he would rather be anywhere else . . . well, that image sticks in my mind for just a moment.
I’m trusting this man. I’m trusting him with the most important part of my life.
What am I doing?! Am I insane?!
I take another breath.
“What are you looking into?” I ask, knowing that I can’t say half of what I’m really thinking. Trust him, Maggie. Trust him . . .
“What?” he asks. Then, “Oh, uh, nothing . . . I just. I can’t really talk. I’m kind of in the middle of something. I just wondered if that address meant anything to you.”
In the middle of something?
“It means nothing to me,” I say. “And what are you in the middle of? Does it involve finding Brandon’s money and Emma?”
I sound possessive of his time, and I catch myself before I can say worse.
“I mean,” I say, reminding myself that he’s helping me (or at least, I hope this will eventually lead to some real help), “I know you’ve got a life beyond this. I just have so many questions.”
“Hey, Maggie?” he asks. “Listen. I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t talk anymore. I have to go.”
And while I can’t explain why this stings, it does. I’d begun to think that he really cared about Emma, about her well-being, and if I’m being honest, I
can admit that I was hoping he might care about me a little as well.
But he’s too busy to care, likely. I’m just a client. He has a busy life, probably, with more clients and friends and maybe someone special . . .
What kind of life does Peter have apart from my drama?
And why should I care?
“Oh,” I offer. “Okay.”
And before I can ask him when I’ll hear from him again, he’s gone.
~ Peter~
I put down my phone and turn onto Kaula Lane. It’s a short road that ends in a few monstrous oceanfront houses. 8749 is much smaller than most of the ones on this street and also much less spectacular, but is still obviously a multi-million dollar home. There are no vehicles in the driveway until I pull in with my very out-of-place Camry. I turn off the ignition and look up at the house. The glass storm door is closed, but the main door is wide open, and I’m certain I see a curtain move in one of the windows. I watch for another moment, then I get out and walk across the brick driveway to the steps that lead up to the front door.
I climb the steps and hesitate only for a second before rapping on the storm door. I can look right into the living room and what I see are fast food wrappers, cigarettes, and a syringe littering the coffee table, and a small, plastic doll, laying naked on the hardwood floor. After I knock, a child’s cry reaches my ear.
Footsteps.
Then a woman appears and cracks the door wide enough to ask, “Yeah?”
She seems somehow very young and very old, all at the same time. Her black hair appears to have been pulled back into a bun at one time, but most of it is loose now. She’s unimaginably thin: her jutting collarbone visible beneath a loose tank top, and her hips barely wide enough to hold up threadbare, denim shorts. The woman’s eyes—as dark as her hair—flash at me with suspicion. There are shadows underneath them as if she hasn’t slept in a million years. Her skin is dull and two sores on her cheek and forehead look as if they’ve been trying to heal for quite some time without much success. A silver ring pierces her lower lip and—when she speaks again—I see that her mouth is a mess. A lower front tooth is broken off into a jagged point and the enamel is missing from another tooth on top. The remaining teeth show brown stains against silver fillings that appear ready to fall out at any moment. Track marks run along the length of her arm.
“What do you want?” she asks, her voice hoarse.
“Hi,” I begin. “My name is Peter.”
She looks at me as if I’m clearly bothering her and she wishes I would hurry up and say whatever it is that I need to say and get off her porch. The crying increases from somewhere within the house.
“I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions,” I continue.
“I’m kind of busy right now,” she says. The crying reaches a new intensity, and she turns around, screaming, “Shut up!” followed by a string of obscenities.
She looks back to me like she’s going to start screaming at me if I don’t get on with it.
“I’m looking for a man named Brandon Keller,” I say hurriedly. “I was wondering if you know where he is or if you’ve talked to him?”
New obscenities fly out of her mouth as she tells me in no uncertain terms to get off her porch. “Come back again, and I’ll call the cops,” she promises as she slams the storm door closed. Then she reaches for the main door and begins to close it as well but not before a little blond-haired girl, wearing nothing but a diaper, toddles into the living room.
Her face is red, her mouth open wide. Not in happy surprise at a lollipop or a puppy, but because she’s screaming for all she’s worth. Then the door closes all the way, and I can’t see her anymore.
I race down the stairs and to my car, my heart pounding.
It was only one glimpse . . . less than a second.
But it was enough.
And I’m the one who actually calls the cops.
~Maggie~
After Peter hangs up on me, I do what I do best.
I sit on the floor in my kitchen, and I cry.
I cry because I’ve failed Emma. I cry because I let Brandon take her. I cry because she has a stupid mother who keeps thinking that people care about her when they clearly don’t.
I cry because I’m so scared that I’ll never see my baby again.
I’m not sure how long I sit there, sobbing, that stupid plate in my hand and my phone in my lap. But at some point, I make a decision.
Peter . . . nice enough guy, but maybe a computer hacker wasn’t the right person to help me out. He has no answers, and I can’t figure out what he’s even doing.
He’s not my only option. I thought he was, because I’d done everything I knew to do. Go to the police. Hound the police. Go everywhere that Brandon might have gone. Check the apartment in town that Brandon still kept. Try every number I had for Brandon. Send Brandon all kinds of messages and angry emails.
I haven’t done enough, clearly.
Maybe I can hire a real investigator. Not a computer guy but a real detective. It crossed my mind before, back when the police told me they couldn’t do anything more. Before I looked into it, though, they gave me Peter’s information, and I’ve been holding onto him like he’s some savior.
Well, it’s time to stop that.
So, even though he’s hung up on me and is busy doing something that has nothing to do with me because he has a life, I pick my phone up again, wipe my face with the dish towel, and call him again.
Voice mail.
Well, good. This will save us the awkwardness.
“Peter,” I say when it comes time to leave my message, making my voice as authoritative as possible. “This is Maggie. I’ve had some time to think about it, and I think it would be best if you stop working this case for me. I appreciate what you’ve done, but I’ve decided to go with someone else.”
Someone else. Surely there’s someone else, right?
I swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat, imagining Peter hearing this message, wondering if he’ll think he did something wrong.
Why do I care what he thinks? Why does this even bother me?
I shake my head just a little, forcing myself to go on.
“Just let me know what I owe you for your time,” I say. And then, because that doesn’t seem like enough, I add, “Thanks for trying, Peter.”
Then I hang up my phone and start crying all over again.
~Peter~
I don’t go far. I drive only a short distance to the main street before turning around to park so that I can see 8749 Kaula Lane. If that lady leaves before the cops arrive, I’m ready to follow her, but I really hope I don’t have to.
My phone vibrates. I look at it quickly enough to see that it’s Maggie, but I don’t dare answer. I can barely have a conversation with her under normal circumstances . . . how am I going to manage to talk to her when her daughter is two hundred yards away being screamed at by a drug addict?
It’s at least fifteen minutes before the cops arrive, which—if I’m going to be honest—is not bad since I called Detective Meyer on the Naples police force and he had to call Bonita Springs and convince them to respond. Apparently, he also contacted the highway patrol and convinced them, too, because a state trooper pulls up just behind two Bonita Springs police cars. As the officers get out of their cars, I get out of mine and start walking closer. I’m only one hundred yards away when I hear the unmistakable sound of a gun being fired.
And I freeze.
~Maggie~
“Please continue to hold. Your call is important to us. One of our operators will be with you shortly.”
I look down at my phone. I’ve been on hold for ten minutes. I don’t know what standard practice is at a private investigative agency and all, but I’m accustomed to Peter, who picks up the phone almost instantly, every time.
I’m not impatient. That’s not it. But I’m bothered by how impersonal this already feels.
Maybe I picked the wrong agency. I mean, this is the
third one I’ve called, so it’s not like he’s my first pick or anything, but because this is the only call where I’ve gotten through to this point—to being on hold instead of just re-routed through a menu over and over again—I’m feeling optimistic.
Not really. I’m not optimistic at all.
I look back at my computer, where I’ve pulled up a whole page full of investigators, all local, all reputable, given the reviews on their web pages. I called the first two and got nowhere on their system, with little hope of being connected to a real, live human. I thought about calling Peter back and saying “just kidding,” but it had been over an hour since I’d left him the message saying that he was off the case and my pride couldn’t stand to look so flaky.
Flaky. As if I’m that anymore, after all the growing up I’ve had to do since Emma was born. As if it matters what anyone thinks of me when it comes to just getting my daughter back.
I’d put down the phone after that second fruitless call and finished washing the dishes. Some normalcy in my messed up reality. Then, I paid some of my bills online. I even started a load of laundry, praying the whole time as if God actually does care, asking Him to please let me pick a winner with the next call I knew I was going to have to make.
And now, here I sit, on hold, listening to a jazzy version of an old song I vaguely know. A hymn maybe? From the last church my dad pastored back when I was a little girl?
Maybe it’s a sign. My dad, trying to communicate to me from the other side, commiserating with me about babies born out of wedlock, ruined marriages, all the heartbreak . . .
I rub my eyes, determined to not be crying when this guy finally picks up my call.
I look over his information again.
He specializes in cases dealing with fraud and tax evasion. I thought Brandon’s money woes would fit under this umbrella, but perhaps I should have gone with one of the investigators who deals primarily with cheating spouses, missing children, and family issues.
I close my eyes as the elevator music continues on.