The Forgotten Child

by Melissa Erin Jackson

  And found Francis Hank Carras instead. Her stomach bottomed out.

  Steeling herself, she took a calming breath, and walked over to him. Aside from the sucking-face couple, she and Francis were alone on this side of the restaurant.

  “Hello, Riley.” He wore khakis and a white button-down shirt. The picture of normalcy. A black leather jacket was draped on the booth next to him. “Care to have a seat?”

  She looked around. Emily and Sasha stood at the maître d’ podium, trying to look busy, but watching Riley and Francis out of the corner of their eyes. Their curiosity would hopefully work in her favor and they’d stick around even after he left to get details on this good-looking stranger requesting her by name.

  Riley slipped into the hard-backed chair across from him. “What are you doing here? I’m guessing it’s not for dim sum.”

  He shrugged. “I love dim sum—especially pad thai.”

  “Pad thai is Thai food; dim sum is Chinese.”

  He waved that away with one of his hands as if the distinction couldn’t possibly mean any less to him. “I find it very interesting that you work here when you claim to be a reporter.”

  Keep calm. “A freelance reporter. Writing isn’t exactly lucrative. This pays my bills.”

  Pursing his lips at that, he said, “You said your editor loved the story idea.”

  “He does.” How the hell did he find her? Then it hit her a moment later. I listed my place of employment on my page. Idiot. “Okay, to be honest? Your story is supposed to be my breakout piece. The pay is shit now, but the name recognition will hopefully snag me a gig as a full-time reporter. You’re my meal ticket out of here,” she said, motioning to the restaurant. She had zero idea where any of this came from, but she ran with it.

  “If this story is so important, why haven’t you contacted me again?”

  “Aw,” she said, cocking her head to the side. “Is this little tantrum because I haven’t called you?”

  She got one of his slow smiles. “You hurt my feelings.”

  “As you can see, I’ve got several irons in the fire,” she said, motioning to the restaurant at large again. “I’m still working on your story.”

  “I’ve been thinking about you,” he said, licking his bottom lip.

  She suppressed a shudder. “You’ve crossed my mind once or twice.”

  He laughed at that. A heartfelt belly laugh. “Such a tease.”

  When the staring went on a little too long, she said, “So was there a reason for this visit other than to pout?”

  “I found out something else very interesting about you.”

  Good god, what did that mean? “Oh?”

  “Well,” he said, folding his arms on the table and leaning toward her a little, just as he’d done during the interview. She didn’t mirror him this time, remaining with her back flat against the chair. “You should really be careful whose friend requests you accept. Opens a person up to seeing all kinds of things.”

  Hell. Had a picture of Michael and her together been posted somehow? The only pictures she had of them were on her phone; she hadn’t posted anything. No. He couldn’t know that Jansen Trombley was actually Michael Roberts. Michael didn’t have a page.

  “You don’t seem to post that much. A private girl. Very smart. But that friend of yours—Jade? She posts all manner of things. Checks in at almost every location, posts selfies, often with the location of wherever she is in the background, and has friends who comment with great frequency. She’s beautiful, that girl. Missed her obvious calling as a model.”

  Riley’s jaw was clenched, her skin crawling. She didn’t trust herself to not say something stupid, so she opted to stay quiet.

  “So, after going through all these posts and comments by these insipid girls, I discover that a few weeks ago, you went on a little ghost hunt.”

  A dramatic pause.

  She took the bait. “And?”

  “That’s where the interesting thing comes in. I hopped over to the forums for the Jordanville Ranch and looked for mention of the weekend you were there. Someone named Angela posted that one of their guests, Riley, had spoken to the ghost of a kid named Pete.”

  Goddammit, Angela.

  “So, what, you a psychic or something?” he asked. “See dead people?”

  “Proper term is medium.”

  “Oho!” he said, throwing his head back as he laughed. “You admit it.”

  She shrugged.

  Voice a fraction softer, he said, “Some girl named Heather said you had contact with Orin himself.”

  Goddammit, Heather.

  The Skinny Jean Quartet couldn’t be trusted with secrets either.

  His change in tone gave her pause. He almost sounded reverent.

  “Why does any of this matter to you?” she asked.

  “I got this girl snooping around who’s first a reporter and then a waitress and now a medium? Makes a guy wonder if he’s got something to be worried about.”

  Now she mirrored his posture, leaning toward him a fraction of an inch. “There something you need to tell me, Francis?”

  His upper lip twitched. “Hank.”

  “You only need to be worried if there’s something you’re hiding,” she said. “You’ve told me the truth, haven’t you? I trust you as much as you trust me.”

  A grin crept onto his face at that, gaze zeroed in on her mouth for a moment before his gaze flicked back up to her eyes. “I trust women only about as far as I can throw them. And that’s usually backwards onto my bed. Or the couch or …” He ran a hand, palm down and fingers splayed, on the black surface of the table between them. “Over the side of something hard and flat.”

  She smiled as she thought about shoving chopsticks into his eyes. “Story first, Hank, story first.”

  With another award-winning smile, he sat back, nodding. “Fair enough, little medium.” Grabbing his jacket off the booth, he started to scoot out.

  She was on her feet in an instant, taking several steps back.

  Stopping a foot in front of her, his tall frame seemed larger than at the interview. “Have a good evening, Riley Thomas.”

  “You too, Francis.”

  Expression some combination of smirk and scowl, he sauntered for the door, jacket in hand. “Good night, ladies,” he said once he reached door, shooting one of his disarming smiles at Emily and Sasha. They swooned in his general direction.

  He didn’t look back as he pushed his way out into the cool, springtime night air.

  Why the hell had he come all the way over here for that? Just to rattle her? She could imagine how Mindy must have felt when he’d done the same to her, but over the course of months. Turning up day after day on her route to and from school.

  Emily and Sasha bounded over.

  “Who was that?” Emily asked.

  “Does he have a son?” asked Sasha. “Though I wouldn’t mind him. Older men have more experience.”

  “Please swear to me that you’ll never encourage that guy if he comes back.”

  Sasha’s head reared back as if Riley had slapped her.

  “He assaulted a friend of mine.”

  A gasp erupted out of them in unison.

  “Yeah, he’s bad news. I don’t have solid proof of it yet, but he’s been sniffing around, trying to see if I’ve got what I need to go to the police. He’s trying to intimidate me.”

  “Jesus,” Emily said, arms crossed over her chest as if she were suddenly cold.

  “If you see him again, or if he calls looking for me—”

  “No worries, girl, we got you. We’ll warn the others, too.”

  After finally booting the drunken couple—when she went over to tell them the restaurant was closed, the man had his hand up the woman’s shirt while she moaned in ecstasy—Riley gathered her things and sent a text to Michael. Heading your way now. Apologies if you find rice in my bra. I can’t be bothered to shower.

  We can take one together, he suggested, followed by half a dozen smi
rking emojis.

  Emily caught her just before she left, Frank in tow. “I told everyone still here about the creep. Frank said he’ll make sure all the girls get to their cars safely.”

  “Thanks, Frank,” Riley said, strapping her purse on her shoulder.

  “I got daughters your age,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  It wasn’t until she was on the road to Michael’s house—too scared to even grab a change of clothes—that she realized how rattled she was. Her hands shook on the steering wheel. She might’ve hit 85 on the highway.

  When she finally got to his house and he greeted her on the porch, she was so relieved to see him, she almost cried.

  “Whoa, you okay?”

  “Better now,” she said, wrapping her arms around him. “Hank showed up at the restaurant tonight.” Then she winced, waiting for it, temple pressed to his chest.

  Michael froze, hands on her waist. “He what? Why didn’t you say anything when you texted me? I could have come to you instead.”

  She shook her head. “I needed some distance. Dude scares the shit out of me.”

  Michael let out a long sigh, then led her inside. For some reason, he decided that what she needed in that moment was hot tea. Once Baxter was happily curled up in her lap, purring away, Michael bustled into the kitchen. She didn’t have the heart to tell him she wasn’t a fan of tea.

  Her phone dinged. Doing her best to reach for her purse on the coffee table without interrupting the cat, she fished out her phone.

  She sucked in a breath.

  One of the Palmers had written back.

  CHAPTER 20

  Riley had expected it would take the Palmers days—maybe weeks—to reply. Not twenty-four hours. She was suddenly terrified to open it. What if they threatened to contact the authorities for harassment if she ever emailed them again? She’d be back to square one.

  Dear Ms. Thomas,

  I will admit that I was ready to dismiss your letter, sure this was yet another person claiming to have communicated with my daughter—you’d be surprised how many we’ve gotten over the years.

  But by the end, I was crying like a baby. My son came running into the room to ask me what was wrong, sure someone must have died given how I was carrying on.

  When I told him to read the email, he had a similar reaction.

  It was the details that sealed it for us both. You knew things that no one outside the family would know—not even the police who interviewed us. Especially that last bit about Nick warning her that she’d get lost one day thanks to that over-active mind of hers.

  That’s what did it.

  My hope of finding out the truth has been wavering lately. People tell me it’s time to move on. Well, now, thanks to you, I can tell them to go suck an egg!

  As for evidence, I’m not sure if I can be any help there. We have since moved out of the house the kids grew up in, and we’re in Rio Rancho now in an “assisted living” facility. More like a “place where people go to slowly die” facility, if you ask me. But they tell me my memory’s not what it used to be, so I guess I don’t have much choice in the matter.

  I read up a little on mediums, and it says some of you folks can pick up information if you handle something of importance to the victim? I’ve got a box of Renee’s things here. All we’ve got left. You’re welcome to give those a try. Have a few newspaper clippings from back then, too.

  I read them sometimes. If my memory really is starting to go, I want to make sure Renee isn’t something I forget.

  Please let me know what you’d like or need to proceed.

  And thank you again for reaching out.

  God bless,

  Walter

  Riley read the email twice. She jumped when Michael sat down next to her.

  “You were zoned out again,” he said.

  The heavy scent of cinnamon hit her. She fought the urge to wrinkle her nose. When Michael handed her the steaming mug, she passed him her phone.

  Baxter’s head jerked up, ears flattened, and then he sprang off Riley’s lap, scampering down the hall.

  “What did I do?” she asked.

  “He hates the smell of cinnamon,” Michael said matter-of-factly, gaze focused on her phone screen.

  She took a tentative sip of the tea—dismayed that even the cat thought it offensive—and found it not nearly as strong as its aroma implied. It was soothing, actually. She took another sip.

  “Damn,” Michael said after a minute, handing her phone back. “What are you going to do?”

  Glancing at him, she said, “You wanna go for another drive?”

  “Just tell me where and when.”

  “No objections?”

  “To an old guy who’s grieving over his daughter? Nah.”

  “I like you a little bit.”

  Smiling he said, “Only a little?”

  She leaned forward to put her mug on the coffee table, then sat in his lap, facing him. With a light kiss, she said, “Slightly more than a little. And we can figure out the other stuff in the morning.”

  Groaning, he kissed her. Then he grasped her under her thighs, held tight, and stood. She yelped and laughed, legs circling his hips.

  “I get you all day tomorrow, right?” he asked, then kissed her neck.

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Good,” he said, walking them to his bedroom. “Because you’re not allowed to get out of my bed until noon.”

  On Tuesday, after Walter and Riley had sent several emails back and forth, she and Michael headed to Rio Rancho to meet Mr. Palmer and his youngest son, Scott, at the Ridgeview Estates after Michael got off work. The middle son, Isaac, lived in Houston.

  Riley admittedly knew very little about how the whole “medium thing” worked, but between her experience with seeing a snapshot of the past after touching the doorjamb of the Hyssop Room and Pete’s beanie, and her borderline-obsessive research on her paranormally inclined peers, she figured trying to get a glimpse into Renee through contact with her belongings couldn’t hurt. The worst that could happen was nothing. Which was what she was already working with.

  She drove, hoping the act would make her feel less jittery. Give her something to do.

  “You all right there, Speed Racer?”

  Apparently, that “something” was doing her best impression of a NASCAR driver. She slowed her highway speed from 85 to 70. She still white-knuckled the steering wheel.

  “I have a hard time thinking of myself as ‘gifted’ or whatever,” she said.

  “I know,” he said. “What specifically is freaking you out right now?”

  “I guess … I’m scared of both possibilities. What if something does happen, but it’s Mariah-level batshit and I send the poor old guy into cardiac arrest? But, also, what if nothing happens and I crush what little spirit he has left?”

  “Don’t put so much pressure on yourself,” he said. “And, remember, he said himself that just contacting him made him feel better. I think whatever you offer him—even if it’s nothing—will be gravy on the cake. Wait, no. I just mixed my metaphors.”

  She laughed. “And your ingredients.”

  “I’m a horrible cook.”

  Some of the tension left her shoulders. Good thing Michael was so level-headed; it kept her from completely losing it.

  Ridgeview Estates was a three-storied, L-shaped building with two entrances, one at the top of the L and one in the intersection of the two pieces. The latter was where they needed to go. Residents with memory impairments lived on the first floor. Walter Palmer currently called the third floor home, so they hadn’t decided just yet that his memory was gone—just making its slow progression out the door.

  As they walked to the entrance, Riley noticed an older woman standing near the doors with her walker, staring out into the parking lot. No one was with her.

  “Hi,” Riley said as they got closer.

  The woman’s eyes took a second to focus on her. “I’m not sure where I was going.”
<
br />   Riley frowned. “Maybe you can go back inside and someone can help you.”

  The woman’s nose crinkled. “I hate it in there.” Then she started shuffling down the sidewalk, where a bend to the right would take her on what looked like a nature trail around the building.

  Michael and Riley shrugged and headed inside.

  The lobby, simple and clean, had a receptionist desk on one side and a couple of offices on the other. Both office doors were closed, the lights off. The scent of food hung heavy in the air. Riley guessed it was dinnertime in the cafeteria now.

  The receptionist at the desk, a young woman likely no older than twenty, only had eyes for her phone.

  “Hello?” Riley said.

  Snapping to attention, she put her phone down. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. How can I help you?”

  “We’re here to see Walter Palmer.”

  “Okay. I’ll give him a call and make sure he’s up for visitors. Can you both sign in?” she said, pointing to a set of open guestbooks at the end of the counter, then picked up the phone.

  Michael scribbled in the date, time, and person they were visiting. Riley followed suit. The page was only half full, and even though only a dozen slots were filled in, several had been from the week before. She figured hundreds of residents filled the units here, yet only four had visitors that day. Weekdays were likely hard for that kind of thing, but the weekend visitors had been sparse, too.

  “Yep. Two of them. Great, I’ll send them on over.” The receptionist hung up and offered them a smile. Riley recognized it as a waitress smile—the one you give when you’re trying your damnedest to be helpful, but all you want is to go home. “Elevator is right around the corner. He’s in room 1345 on the third floor.”

  The inside of the elevator had small, framed announcements on the walls. The schedule of events for the day included both “Xbox bowling practice” and “interpretive dance with Julia.”

  “Is it bad that I’m upset we missed most of these things?” Michael asked.

  “I need to know what this bowling practice looks like.”

  As they stood outside Walter’s door, Michael placed his hand on the middle of her back. “You’ve got this.”