Obsessed

by Jenn Faulk

  I need her.

  “Mom,” I’d barely gotten out before I started crying.

  She’d paused for only a moment. There was no way she could have known what was happening, what I’d been through, what I’m facing. But still, she knew, just like mothers do.

  “Maggie,” she’d breathed. “Do you need me?”

  Yes.

  I’d sobbed the details out, and she’d reassured me that she and Seth would be on their way, that they would come here, and that they would do everything they could to help. They arrived early this morning, heard it all again from Tanner, and have already started working with the police, canvassing the neighborhood with flyers, calling hospitals in the area, making lists of everyone who might be connected to Brandon, to me . . .

  I’m walking now. Taking a break from all the questions. I had to get out. Can still barely breathe as I’m walking toward a church I’ve passed a thousand times since moving here. I’m going to go there and pray. I’m going to tell God everything, again and again, just as I have been, and I’m going to beg Him to hear me, to forgive me, and to show me mercy, even if I don’t deserve it.

  One step in front of the other.

  Closer and closer.

  It’s just in my sight now, and . . .

  There’s a man. A man right in front of me, all of a sudden, as though he’s just joined me for a leisurely stroll.

  “Maggie?” he says.

  He’s familiar, but it takes me a moment to fully recognize him.

  But I do recognize him, just as his name comes to my lips.

  “Neil?”

  ~Peter~

  The computer program I designed combines common software that generates and attempts millions of random passwords, with one I created myself that generates permutations and combinations based on common human habits.

  A lot of people, for example, create one password and then use it for every single account they have (they’re my favorite ones to hack—they make it so easy). And there are common ways for people to create passwords, too—dates and names are the most often used, and often people will pick common words or dates and add a few symbols to the end to make their passwords a little harder to guess. Some people pick favorite words and substitute symbols and numbers for letter. Dolphins, for example, would become d01ph1n5. My program specializes in searching for passwords that have been created in this manner.

  Brandon shared all of his passwords with me, so I didn’t even have to use my program, and it was a good thing he did. Brandon was smart when it came to account security—that’s one of the reasons I was so sure that he’d stolen his own money . . . so sure that he hadn’t been hacked.

  Brandon created a random and complex password for each and every account he had, and he changed them fairly often. He recorded them all on a simple sheet of notebook paper that he kept folded up in his wallet. When the police hired me to help them and he agreed to cooperate, he had pulled that paper out of his wallet, unfolded it, and then rewritten all of his usernames and passwords down on a fresh sheet of paper.

  “Here,” he’d said, handing me the original. “It’s about time for a new one anyway.”

  Indeed it had been. The one he gave me—that I have right now—has a lot of wear. It has obviously been folded and unfolded over and over again.

  Of course it has been. He checked on his money all the time. His passwords were too complicated to be memorized. He would have had to open that paper and look at it every single time he wanted to access one of his accounts online.

  So who had access to Brandon’s wallet?

  Crystal.

  But no. I’m certain Crystal isn’t behind this, and I quit considering her almost as soon as the idea comes into my mind.

  Think, Peter. Think.

  I spent all last night doing just that. Thinking. And now that morning is here, I’m ready to go.

  I get in my car and drive to North Naples.

  Maggie told me that Brandon spent a lot of time at PowerCross Gym, and after I find a place to park, I walk in and look around. Maggie had said that the place was “intense,” and I can see what she means. There are a few guys and one woman lifting weights in front of a mirrored wall. Any one of them look like they could put me in the hospital without breaking a sweat.

  “Can I help you?” a polite, perky voice asks. I turn to see a woman in bikini bottoms and a sports bra walking toward me. She can probably bench press two hundred pounds.

  “Uh, yes,” I say. “I was wondering if I could see your locker rooms?”

  “Interested in a membership?” she asks with a smile.

  “It all depends on your locker rooms,” I answer, and I give her a smile back.

  As she leads me through a cinderblock hall and down a small flight of stairs, she regales me with information about equipment, classes, and fees. I nod as if I’m interested, but when we reach the locker room, I can’t focus on anything except the lockers. A few of them have locks on them, but most do not. The ones that do have different types. Different styles.

  “People provide their own locks?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she nods. “We have some for rent, but most people bring their own.”

  I nod.

  “Do you know this man?” I ask, pulling Brandon’s picture out of a file folder that I’ve been carrying.

  She looks at Brandon’s picture and then says quietly, “That’s Mr. Keller.”

  I nod again.

  “Did he have his own lock, or did he rent one?”

  “He brought his own,” she said. Then she asks, “Are you with the police?”

  “They hired me to help them,” I say. Not an exact truth, but not an exact lie, either.

  “Did he have a particular locker that he used?” I ask.

  “No,” she answers, shaking her head. “It’s first come, first serve. People just grab an empty one.”

  I open a few empty ones and naturally find absolutely nothing. I reach into my file folder and pull out a picture of skinny track lady. Except that her name isn’t skinny track lady. It’s Amanda Farthing. Age 23. Multiple felonies and misdemeanors. Drug use. Drug trafficking. Prostitution. She spent five months in a mental institution when she was 19.

  “Have you ever seen her?” I ask, holding up the picture of Amanda that Detective Meyer sent me.

  “No,” she says, shaking her head.

  “Are you sure?” I ask, although I can tell that she’s sure.

  “I know everyone who comes in here. I’ve never seen her before.”

  I nod. And then I sigh. And then I thank her, and I leave.

  I step out of PowerCross Gym and stand just outside the door, trying to figure out what to do next. The sun has just started promising that it’s going to be another bright day, but I’m not so sure.

  I sigh again and rub my eyes.

  Think, Peter. Think.

  I uncover my eyes and look across the street.

  Café Joe Noir.

  That’s how I met him. Well, not at the gym but at the coffee shop. He’d work out in the mornings then come across the street to get coffee.

  I head across the street where a dozen people are getting their morning caffeine fix and staring intently at their phones.

  “Welcome to Café Joe Noir. How can I help you?”

  I step up to the register and show the cashier Brandon’s picture.

  “Have you ever seen this man?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he answers. “He’s in here all the time.”

  Not lately, though, I think.

  “What about her?” I ask, holding up Amanda’s picture.

  He studies it for a moment and then shakes his head.

  “I don’t think so,” he says. “I mean, we get a lot of people in here, but . . . I don’t recognize her.”

  I sigh one more time, unsure of exactly what I thought I was going to find out by coming in here and waving around pictures of two dead people.

  “I’ve seen her before,” a teenage girl says,
passing behind the counter with a package of napkins in her hand.

  “You have?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says, nodding. “You remember,” she goes on, hitting the cashier in the arm with the back of her hand as if to jog his memory. “She came in here a few weeks ago looking for Neil.”

  ~Maggie~

  “Neil.”

  I say his name again and manage a smile. It’s a distracted smile, of course, because with all that’s going on, this hardly seems like the time to chat with an old coworker.

  “Hey, Maggie,” he says, grinning at me, that same smile he gave me all the time back when we were both baristas at Café Joe Noir. He’s still every bit as handsome as he was back then, when girls from the local college would come in droves to buy coffee for the chance to flirt with him.

  He was good about flirting back, but I don’t think he ever asked any of them out.

  He asked me out, though.

  I can still remember it. I was already practically living with Brandon by that point, and I was so enamored that I just assumed everyone else in the world knew that I was taken. Blissfully, happily, completely taken.

  “Oh, Neil, I’m sorry . . . I’m actually with someone,” I’d said, thinking then that the juvenile term “dating” didn’t come anywhere close to the kind of relationship I had with Brandon.

  “Really?” Neil had asked, still smiling. “Who?”

  “Brandon Keller,” I’d answered, grinning wider.

  And I’d offered no further description, believing as I did that everyone had to know who Brandon was because who could even be in the same room with him and not notice him, right?

  Neil hadn’t needed a description either way, though, because Brandon had come in at that point for his regular cup of coffee, surveying the shop with a quick glance around, like he always did, before he made his way to my side.

  “Maggie Mae,” he’d murmured, slipping an arm around my waist possessively, leaning down to kiss my neck, then looking up at Neil pointedly.

  But Neil hadn’t taken offense to that. He hadn’t even taken offense to the way I’d turned to Brandon and all but ignored him as he said, with that smile still on his face, “Oh, well, that’s cool. Hey, Mr. Keller.”

  “Hey,” Brandon had tossed out, lowering his lips to mine, as I had lost myself in him . . .

  I blink at Neil now as we stand together out in the sunlight.

  He’s still got that smile on his face.

  “Hey,” I manage a moment later, embarrassed that I’ve let my thoughts wander away from the present and all of its huge troubles. “How are you, Neil?”

  “Worried about you,” he says, and at this, his smile falters just a little. “Maggie, I heard about your little girl. I saw the news last night, and I heard about Brandon.” He takes in a sharp breath. “I’m so sorry.”

  Everyone is sorry, but no one can make it better. I still appreciate his sympathy.

  “We’re hoping that she’ll be found soon,” I say, which is really all I can say at this point. It’s all I can manage, with a sob caught in my throat.

  “Well,” Neil says, his smile back in place, “you don’t need to worry anymore.”

  I can’t imagine why he would say this, when there are plenty of reasons for me to be worried.

  “Oh?” I ask.

  “I’m not at the coffee shop anymore,” he says. “I came into a . . . well, I made a really smart business move. And I’m set now. You know, financially.”

  Good for him, I guess. I have no idea what this means for me or what it has to do with me worrying.

  “So, when I heard about your little girl,” he says softly, then pauses. “Well, when I heard about Emma . . .”

  Her name makes my heart break just a little more. I can feel the tears begin to fall from my eyes.

  “Oh, Maggie,” Neil says, reaching out for my hands, that caring expression on his face so comforting. “Don’t cry. There’s no reason to cry anymore.”

  Emma. Still gone. And I’m standing here making small talk with someone—

  “I found Emma,” he says.

  I blink. Surely this is a dream . . .

  “What?” I whisper.

  “I found Emma,” he says again, smiling broadly this time. “I hired some people, paid for a search, and I found her. I’ve been looking for you to tell you. I have Emma. I can take you to her right now.”

  He has Emma. Oh . . . he has Emma!

  Now, I’m crying harder. Because God has heard my prayers, God led Neil to Emma, and now, I’m going to see her again.

  “Do you want to see Emma?” Neil asks, still holding my hands.

  I can only manage a nod, and as soon as I do, Neil is walking me toward a car parked on the other side of the street, less than a block away. I don’t say a word as he helps me into the car and shuts the door behind me. I’m only thinking of Emma as Neil gets into the driver’s seat, starts the car, and pulls away from the curb, telling me how great it is that everything has worked out just like this.

  ~Peter~

  I don’t even bother to go back across the street to PowerCross to ask if they’d ever seen Neil. I’m pretty certain that they have. I think Neil watched Brandon pulling out his little sheet of paper on a daily basis at the coffee shop and then he joined the gym and broke into Brandon’s locker to photograph all of Brandon’s usernames and passwords. Or maybe he just got a shot of it at the coffee shop somehow. I’m not sure exactly how he did it, I just know that he did.

  Those people who create one password and then use it for every single account they have? Yeah. That’s Neil.

  Neil Palmiter had about thirty different accounts in place the day before Brandon’s business was robbed. Each one had only twenty or thirty bucks in it—whatever the minimum balance was at each particular bank, but on the day of the robbery—in increments of less than five thousand dollars at a time—Neil had methodically taken money out of Brandon’s accounts and put them into over two hundred of the client accounts that were set up to cover travel expenses. Once he did that, he then moved each lump sum one more time into one of his own accounts.

  He may have used one password for all of his own personal accounts, but Neil wasn’t completely stupid in what he did. Banks are required to report transfers of large amounts of money so Neil transferred amounts that were small enough to avoid detection. I imagine that he also switched Brandon’s phone number to another phone and—from wherever he was at the time in Bonita Springs—used that phone to make all of the transfers. This was smart for two reasons: Brandon was so preoccupied trying to get his phone back up and running that he didn’t check on any of his accounts and see what was happening, and later—when the police hired me to investigate—it appeared as if Brandon had made all of the transactions himself.

  I’m almost too busy to remind myself what a mistake that was. Almost.

  But the good news is that he hasn’t tried to get a new identity or anything like that. He’s still Neil Palmiter, and I’m onto him now.

  I don’t have any idea why he would have Emma, but I’m certain that he does.

  And I’m going to find him. And her. I’m certain of that, too.

  I can hardly wait to tell Maggie.

  ~Maggie~

  It’s only when I’m in Neil’s car, driving away from my neighborhood that I begin to question the wisdom of what I’m doing.

  Isn’t it just too convenient and unlikely that he showed up when he did? And who would use their fortune to find the child of someone who’s barely an acquaintance?

  And why didn’t he call the police if he rescued Emma? If someone took her, someone is still out there.

  We need to call the police.

  “I should dial 911,” I say, pulling my phone from my pocket. “Because whoever took Emma needs to be arrested.”

  “Just wait,” he says, reaching his hand out and using it to make me lower my phone. “Wait until you see Emma first. A few minutes isn’t going to make any difference.”r />
  This doesn’t seem right at all.

  And where are we going?

  “Where is Emma?” I ask. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Somewhere safe,” he says with that same smile again. “I made sure she’s safe.”

  He’s not giving me any real answers. “Where did you find her?” I ask. “Who took her?”

  “Maggie,” he says calmly. “Quit asking so many questions. Why don’t you relax and just enjoy this?”

  Enjoy this? My daughter has been kidnapped. What about this should be enjoyed? Even when I get to her, there’s the issue of her future safety.

  Why won’t he answer my questions?

  “Neil,” I say again. “Please tell me what happened.”

  “What happened,” he says, “is that I found Emma for you. And I’m taking you to her. What more do you need to know?”

  He glances at me and gives me yet another smile.

  No. This isn’t right at all.

  “I’d feel better if I call the police,” I say, pulling out my phone again.

  He pulls over to the side of the road and stops the car, putting it in park. He turns and looks at me, his smile gone.

  “I’ve gone to all this work to find your daughter for you,” he begins. “Do you have any idea how much money I’ve spent on all this? Do you have any idea how much time I’ve invested in this? For you?”

  When I don’t answer, he continues.

  “All I’m asking,” he goes on, “is for me to have the pleasure of getting to see you reunited with your daughter without a bunch of police and reporters around. Is that too much to ask?”

  This is not okay. Something is definitely wrong.

  With the way he’s looking at me, I’m beginning to get scared.

  But I can’t let him know this.

  So I lie.

  “Thank you, Neil,” I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. “Why did you go to all this trouble for me?” He looks at me for a moment as if he’s trying to read my face before he finally gives me another smile and puts the car in drive.