Obsessed

by Jenn Faulk

  “I care about you, Maggie,” he says. “I’ve always cared about you. You can count on me. I’ll always be there for you. You never have to worry about me deserting you the way Brandon did.”

  Oh. Oh, no.

  He pulls away from the curb.

  He’s driving again.

  “Brandon wasn’t good enough for you, Maggie,” he says, more to himself than anything. “He didn’t deserve you.”

  He glances at me.

  “Sometimes,” he says, “I kind of think people get exactly what they deserve, don’t you?”

  I’m thinking through the dismissal I gave him all those years ago, never guessing the extent of what he was feeling or thinking . . . or of what he was capable of.

  I just have to keep him happy until I can figure out what to do. Can the police track my phone if I dial 911? Should I even dare?

  “I guess,” I stammer. If people do get what they deserve, I must have done a whole lot wrong to end up riding in a car with this psychopath.

  “Don’t just guess, Maggie,” he says. “Know. Know that Brandon treated you very wrong, and now he’s dead. Know that I have put you above everything else in this world, and now . . .”

  He turns and gives me a smile.

  “Now it’s about to all pay off,” he says. “I can’t wait for you to see what I’ve done for you.”

  I have to change the subject. I have to get him to think of something else besides Brandon. Besides me.

  “I haven’t talked to you in so long,” I say, going for casual, knowing that my face needs to convey anything but terror. “I don’t know anything about what you’ve been up to. You said you left the coffee shop?” I move my phone to where I can unlock the screen inconspicuously.

  “Yes,” he says as he begins to pick up speed. We’re heading through Naples, toward the Gulf. “Once I didn’t need to work anymore.”

  I hold my breath, angling the phone away from him. “Why didn’t you need to work anymore?”

  “I told you,” he says, a Cheshire cat grin spreading over his face. “I made some good business deals. Don’t need a minimum wage job anymore. Finally hit it big time.”

  “What kind of business are you in?” I ask. I’ve tapped open the keypad now. Just three numbers are all I need to dial . . .

  He glances at me.

  “What exactly,” he asks, looking pointedly at my phone, “are you doing?”

  ~Peter~

  Before I call Maggie, I call the police, because—as Maggie told me—I’m not the police. Detective Meyer listens as I tell him what I’ve found and then asks, “How sure are you?”

  “One hundred percent,” I answer. “Every amount that was taken from a client account matches a deposit into one of Neil’s accounts. Matches it to the penny. Times match, too. It was him.”

  Meyer pauses for a moment and then asks, “Is it possible that Brandon was working with this guy to commit insurance fraud?”

  I’ve already thought about this and it’s possible, but it doesn’t make a lot of sense. If Brandon wanted it to look like someone else had done it, why not use a disposable phone to make all those transactions? Why have them all generate from Brandon’s number? And really . . .

  “Does it matter?” I ask. “At this point does it really matter if Brandon was in on it or not? He’s dead, and Amanda’s dead. And Neil’s the common link. He’s got Emma—I know he does.”

  “We’ll put an APB out on him,” Detective Meyer agrees. “We’ll see what we can find.”

  “Do you want me to keep looking around?” I ask. “See what I can find?”

  “Sure,” he says, which is good since I’ve been looking the whole time I’ve been on the phone with him and I’m not going to stop until I find Neil. And Emma.

  “I’ll let you know if I find something,” I tell him.

  “Okay,” he agrees.

  I hang up. And then I call Maggie.

  ~Maggie~

  Before I can answer Neil’s question or even attempt to hide my phone, it begins to ring in my hand.

  I begin to panic because of the look in Neil’s eyes, then shoot a quick glance to the screen.

  Peter.

  I stare at the phone, frozen. I want to answer, of course, but I don’t dare.

  “Who is that?” Neil asks.

  “Oh,” I stammer, “it’s, uh, no one. Just . . . I’ll let it go to voicemail. Sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry, Maggie,” he says. “It’s not your fault that your phone is ringing. I just want to know who it is.”

  What will he do if I tell him the truth?

  “Just someone who’s helping me find Emma,” I say softly, looking at my phone, wondering what Peter is doing, where he is, and if he’s gotten any closer to solving all of this.

  “Who?” he asks again, as the call goes to voicemail.

  “You don’t know him,” I say. Then, I cringe inwardly.

  Him.

  He’ll pick up on that, surely.

  “No one,” I say, trying to brush it off.

  “Him,” Neil repeats. “What’s his name?”

  “Peter,” I say meekly.

  “And who exactly is Peter?”

  “He’s just this guy,” I say. “He helped me find Emma when Brandon went missing.”

  He glances at me. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “No,” I say, but even to my own ears, it sounds unconvincing.

  “Because I’ve done so much for you, Maggie,” he says, taking his eyes off the road to look at me again. “And if you . . . if you’re seeing someone . . . well, that’s not going to be good at all . . .”

  “No,” I say again, shaking my head. “Of course not. I’m . . . I’m not seeing anyone.”

  And then my phone chimes to let me know that Peter has left a message.

  No.

  Neil turns his eyes to the road again and is quiet for a moment before looking back to me and saying, “Let me hear it.”

  “It’s . . . it’s nothing,” I stammer. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “Let me hear it,” he says again.

  I swallow hard and dial my voicemail, attempting a smile at Neil as though this is just a normal car ride with a normal friend . . .

  I listen for Peter’s voice.

  “Put it on speaker,” Neil tells me, and so I do, just as Peter’s voice begins to play.

  “Maggie. It’s me. Call me as soon as you can. I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “See?” I say, putting my phone down and attempting another smile. “Nothing.”

  “Call him back,” Neil instructs me. “We’d better see what he wants.”

  ~Peter~

  After I leave Maggie a message and tell her to call me back, I try to figure out where Neil is.

  He hasn’t been using his phone, but it’s been receiving enough data through notifications and messages and such that I can see exactly what towers he is near, where he’s been traveling, and where he’s going.

  What I see is that he’s in Naples. That he’s headed west.

  And that not too long ago, he was in Maggie’s neighborhood.

  ~Maggie~

  There’s no way I’m calling Peter back.

  I try to keep it friendly with Neil.

  “Oh, it can wait,” I say. “I’m having a good time talking with you and all. Peter can wait.”

  “Are you sure you’re not keeping something from me, Maggie?” he asks, glancing sideways at me.

  “No,” I lie, trying to smile as genuinely as possible. “It’s nothing. You were telling me about what you’ve done for me. I’d love to hear more about that.”

  Is it working? Is he going to leave the topic of Peter and his voicemail alone? Is whatever he has planned enough to get him off the subject?

  “Maggie,” he says calmly, “you—” and then the sound of my phone ringing again cuts him off.

  Oh, Peter. The timing stinks. I think of him telling me, “I always scr
ew everything up.”

  What would he say if he could see the predicament I’m in now, failing to keep Neil happy and calm because my phone just keeps ringing and ringing . . .

  I hold it in my hands helplessly.

  “I . . . I’m so sorry . . . I just . . .”

  “Answer it,” Neil instructs me. “And put it on speakerphone.”

  “Please,” I say to him, softly, weakly. “It’s nothing. Just let it go to voicemail.”

  “Do I have to remind you again of everything that I’ve done for you?” he asks, almost incredulous. Then, the first hint of anger edges his voice. “Answer the phone. Now.”

  I answer the phone and immediately put it on speakerphone, genuinely afraid of Neil now.

  “Hey, Peter,” I manage, trying to make my voice sound even and light. “This really isn’t a good time. Can I call you back?”

  “Maggie,” he says, sounding almost breathless and definitely ignoring that request. “I figured it out. I know who took Brandon’s money, and I know who has Emma!”

  Brandon’s money.

  Well, I now know how Neil came into a lot of money.

  “Oh, that’s great,” I say, faking enthusiasm. “But really, it’s not a good time for me to talk.”

  “His name’s Neil Palmiter,” he goes on, still ignoring me. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  I glance over at Neil. He’s still driving with his hands relaxed on the wheel, the hint of a smile on his lips.

  How is he so calm when Peter has figured everything out?

  “Huh,” I say, closing my eyes and thinking through this. “No. That name doesn’t . . . doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Well, I don’t know a lot about him yet except that he worked in that coffee shop where you said you met Brandon. I called Detective Meyer, and they’re looking for him right now. I’m tracking him, and as long as he keeps his phone on, we’ll be able to find him.”

  “Well, be careful,” I say. “Peter, I’ve really got to go now.”

  “You’re okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say softly, wanting to cry, to scream, to do something to let him know that I’m most definitely not okay. I wish I’d never gone on that stupid walk. I wish I’d just stayed with my parents, with Tanner, or even that I’d not let Peter leave my side. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Because he was somewhere near your neighborhood not too long ago,” Peter says. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  “Oh,” I murmur. I glance over at Neil. Still calm, still relaxed.

  I can’t do anything to jeopardize that.

  “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Okay,” he agrees. “I love you, Maggie.”

  And there it is. Neil looks at me with just a hint of irritation.

  I’ve lied to him. He knows I’ve lied.

  I can’t tell Peter that I love him, too. If I just hang up now, maybe I can convince Neil that Peter is just this guy who’s a little obsessed with me.

  A guy who’s a little obsessed with me. The irony isn’t lost on me as I glance over at Neil again, right as I hang up on Peter.

  “Maggie?” Neil asks me slowly, reaching into his pocket.

  Oh . . . what’s in his pocket? What is he about to do? I imagine all kinds of horrible things. A gun. A knife. Zip ties. A roll of duct tape to cover my mouth.

  “Yes, Neil?”

  He pulls out his phone.

  “I think both of us,” he says, holding it for me to see, “need to turn these off.”

  ~Peter~

  I love you. And that’s just exactly what I’ll tell you, from now on, every time you tell me that you love me. I love you. That’s what she said.

  Except that she didn’t. I just told her that I love her, and she hung up on me.

  And Neil was near her neighborhood, and . . .

  No. No, no, no, no, no . . .

  My next computer search is a frantic one, and I’ve never willed my program to work faster than I do right now. Fortunately Maggie winds up being about as easy to hack as Neil was and—although it does take me a few minutes—without too much trouble, I finally get into her account and start looking at exactly where her cell phone has been.

  It’s my worst fear as I realize that her phone and Neil’s have been pinging off the exact same towers for twenty minutes. The phones are together. They are together . . .

  He has Maggie.

  I can find them. I can find them.

  Until I realize that my “worst fear” is now my second worst fear because it has just been surpassed—replaced by this new one: Neither one of them are showing any activity now.

  Neil and Maggie have both turned their phones off . . .

  And there’s absolutely nothing I can do to find them.

  ~Maggie~

  I turn my phone off, and with it, I lose hope that Peter will be able to find me. It was a long shot, hoping that he would search for me before I hung up on him, but now . . .

  If I hadn’t met you, then . . . . well then I’d still be looking for you.

  Peter said that once. I say a silent prayer that he might look for me now.

  “Why don’t you let me hang onto that?” Neil suggests, reaching his hand out for my phone.

  I hand it over, trying to smile at him.

  “It’s almost time,” he says, doing a much better job of smiling back. “Are you ready? Are you excited?”

  “Sure,” I say. “I’d probably be more excited if you’d let me know what exactly you have in mind.”

  “Emma,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “You’re going to see Emma. You’re going to see everything that I’ve been working so hard for.”

  Emma. Yes. But it’s everything else I’m concerned about . . .

  “Where is she? Is she by herself? Is she safe?”

  “I wouldn’t leave a child that age by herself,” he says, sounding slightly offended. “She’s with a friend.” He glances my way and asks, “Don’t you know that I’m going to take good care of both of you? Don’t you know that you can trust me?”

  He’s going to take care of us. He thinks we’re going to be with him, that the two of us are together.

  “Where will we live?” I ask, playing along. “I mean, if the police are looking for us . . .”

  I make sure and say “us” and not “you,” wanting to continue this fantasy he’s having, that we’re in this thing together now.

  “The police aren’t looking for us,” he assures me. “We haven’t done anything wrong. Brandon gave me his money. He wanted to cash in on his insurance policy, and he asked me to hold it for him. Told me he’d let me keep half. He told me that if anything happened to him, all of it was mine.” He looks at me and smiles. “It’s all ours, Maggie. Yours, and mine, and Emma’s. Just like it’s supposed to be. And as far as where we’re going to live? Well, you’re going to find out in just a minute.”

  And as he says this, he pulls into a parking lot.

  He really believes what he’s saying. Brandon didn’t even know the guy, apart from the frequent nods and casual greetings in the coffee shop. I almost say this, but I’m struck silent by where we are.

  A marina.

  Oh . . .

  He’s going to get me on a boat.

  And he’s going to take me someplace where no one will ever be able to find me.

  ~Peter~

  Heroes.

  In all great stories, they’re the ones who are able to think and act clearly even if everything else around them is falling apart. Not only are they able to actually make decisions, they’re usually able to make good decisions. Heroes don’t screw everything up.

  The amygdala is the part of the brain responsible for the fight or flight instinct—the one that sends our hearts pounding and causes adrenaline to rush through our veins. It’s a very smart response, one that’s designed to keep us alive above all else that’s going on (because dead people never make good decisions), but it’s hard to be a hero whe
n your amygdala kicks in.

  My amygdala works overtime on a daily basis, but it’s in full swing right now. My throat is closing, and I can’t breathe.

  Think, Peter. Think.

  Maggie needs me. Emma needs me.

  They need me to be a hero, but if I can’t form a coherent sentence when I’m around a pretty girl, how am I supposed to be a hero now when I can’t even breathe?

  Pray, Peter. Pray.

  I remember my mother telling me to pray—telling me that God was always there for me and that I could talk to Him any time I wanted. And I have prayed to Him. I’ve prayed to Him a lot, but He has never answered. Never.

  Pray, Peter. Pray.

  Okay. Okay, fine. I’ll pray.

  I close my eyes.

  Help me, Lord. Please help me. Help Maggie. Help Emma. Help me to find them. Show me what to do.

  This is stupid.

  I open my eyes and turn back to my computer.

  And I start researching Neil’s browser history.

  There’s nothing. Nothing that will tip me off to where he is taking Maggie. Nothing that will tip me off as to how to find her.

  “Ahhhggggg!!” I scream. A loud, primal scream that generates from my amygdala. And I pound my desk with both of my fists, making my keyboard jump.

  Think, Peter. Think.

  I cover my eyes with my hands. Trying not to cry. Trying to think. And in the darkness of that moment . . .

  “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

  That’s what He gives me? A platitude? A verse that practically anyone who’s ever darkened the steps of a church has committed to heart?

  I know this verse. I know it inside and out. I’ve tried to cling to it for years. My mother gave me this verse. Gave us this verse. Me, and Andrew, and Dad. She quoted it to me when she broke the news to my eight-year-old self, running a hand over her rounded belly and promising me that everything was going to be alright, even though it clearly wasn’t. I heard her whispering it to Dad one night when I was awakened by his sobs and walked quietly to their doorway to see what the commotion was about. She murmured in in my ear even as a hospice nurse filled a vial with something to dull the pain. And she wrote it on the inside of Andrew’s baby book—the one she started, but left for me and Dad to finish.