Dead end.
When I noticed the time was after midnight, I closed down my computer, hoping that Holly might be asleep by now. I peeked in her room and saw she was tossing from side to side. One shower later, dressed in boxers and a tank top, I checked for what I hoped would be the last time. Gentle snuffly snores came from Holly’s side of the room.
“Bingo.” I tiptoed in and carefully lifted the pink butterfly-adorned backpack off the floor at the foot of her bed, surprised how heavy it was. I took it to Wendy’s room and sat cross-legged on the bed to go through the main compartment one item at a time.
I removed a math textbook and the workbook that accompanied it. Next out was a plastic binder with her homework neatly tucked in the front pocket, followed by a plastic case with pencils, pens and erasers. She was a neatnik, our Holly. If I’d carried a backpack at that age, the inside had probably looked like a barn floor.
The only item out of place was a plastic bag with the uneaten sandwich I’d packed for her that morning. Now it looked like a school bus had run over it. I debated whether to throw the bag and contents away, but if Holly noticed they were gone, my snooping would be revealed. I wondered how long the squashed sandwich would remain there. I wished somebody was around to make a bet with me.
The zip pocket on the back yielded a library book, another workbook and nothing else. I was reminded of my morning’s futile search. I checked the back pocket’s pocket—every pocket had bred another. I gave up and started to replace everything in the main compartment when I felt something hard against my fingertips. I realized I’d missed a zipper.
I pulled out Holly’s phone.
I’m not the digital genius Sophie and other staff members are, but I recognized that this one was bare bones, and well suited to a child. The phone looked sturdy, the numbers were large and slightly raised to make tapping simpler, and each tap produced an audible click. I played around and found that the phone had no internet capabilities—perfect for a child not old enough to use them safely—but I found the caller list immediately.
Holly had received no calls in the past week.
Disappointed, I fiddled for another minute and found text messaging. The last text she had received from my sister had been weeks before, and had to do with where to wait at the local library until Wendy could pick her up.
So Holly’s mother hadn’t called since leaving on her trip, not even before things fell apart. And she hadn’t texted. But there was good news, too.
Holly’s father had.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Finding a way to text Bryce and actually doing it were two different things. What would I say to him? “Hey Bryce, don’t worry about your girls? Wendy might be running from the law, but I’ve got things covered?” Or maybe, improvising on the case Sophie had turned up, I could casually ask if Russian spies were in the market for any of his secrets. Just in case.
I went to bed wondering what to do about Bryce, and woke up the next morning having decided not to do anything. His contact information was a piece of good luck, and I’d added it to my own phone. If the time came when I needed to get in touch with him, I knew how—at least I did if he was somewhere he could receive messages. I didn’t know exactly how that worked on a sub, but at the moment, I didn’t need to. Once I did, my mother could probably tell me. In the meantime, the less concerned I seemed and the fewer questions I asked her, the better.
I managed to get the girls off to school with multigrain waffles in their little tummies. Poor Holly drooped her way out the door, as if the sandman had held her hostage all night. At most, she’d had seven hours of fitful sleep. If that didn’t change in the next few days, I had to consult a doctor, and I hoped my mother had the necessary permissions.
After I dropped them off, I didn’t go back to the town house. I had dressed for a run through the country, so I hopped on the interstate, and eventually took an exit not far from the county line. Southwest Florida was not all sand, gulf and palm trees. Away from the water, this little corner of heaven still had centuries-old oaks, which no developer had yet destroyed, along with scruffy fields dotted with Hereford cattle and clumps of saw palmetto. Pastel concrete block farmhouses stood in the shade of chinaberry and silver buttonwood. Pools graced front yards, and substantial vegetable gardens were finishing one growing season and greening up with the next.
I parked where I usually did when I took this particular turn, off the feeder road about six miles from the interstate on a smaller dirt road. The signs at the crossroads that pointed in the direction I planned to run read Buttonwood Nursery, 1.5 miles, and Marvin’s Masterpieces, 3 miles. That particular sign claimed that Marvin, a taxidermist, specialized in “odd beasts and rare.” I always pictured a stuffed unicorn waiting in his yard to greet customers. Someday I planned to run that far and find out.
The biggest sign, Confidence K-9s, 2 miles, was the only one that was freshly painted and positioned in the best place for travelers to see. Mateo Santiago, who owned the kennel and training facility, was meticulous and smart. Teo rarely did anything without thinking carefully about the best way to proceed and then barreling full speed ahead.
I limbered up a little, although I would do the bulk of my stretching afterward. Temperatures had dropped into the low fifties overnight, and so far had only climbed into the sixties. I wore running capris patterned with a beach scene and a long-sleeved crop top shirt. Apparently it was important to protect my arms from the cold, but the designer had declared open season on my midriff.
For Christmas last year Wendy had presented me with this outfit and three other running ensembles, along with bright purple headphones. That much glamour is definitely out of place in my wardrobe. Most of my clothing looks like I picked it up on sale at Dollar General, but when I run, I’m the bomb. In exchange I gave her an embroidered Mexican shawl I’d found in a vintage clothing shop and a hand-thrown mug that read: “You and I are sisters. Always remember that if you fall I will pick you up...” And then on the other side: “...after I stop laughing.”
Sadly, I’m not laughing.
I started my jog slowly, keeping to the middle of the road since the ground was harder, and traffic was light to none. The route was nothing short of an obsession, and every time I ran, I told myself I could turn around before I reached Confidence K-9s. I never did. Seeing what Teo’s life had become was like picking the scab off a sore. Not that Confidence K-9s was anything to be ashamed of. In addition to boarding and obedience training, Confidence raised dogs for personal protection and security. Last month when I whizzed past, I’d seen a foundation for a new building behind an extra parking area. At home I tried not to call up Teo’s website, but I was sure he was doing well. It’s just that he wasn’t doing what he’d trained to do, the job he’d loved as much as he’d loved breathing. Teo was no longer a K9 officer, and I was the reason.
A light breeze kept me cool, along with shade trees bordering the roadside. At one point an ancient Jack Russell popped out of the bushes to run with me, yapping as we went, but he tired well before I did and left after he’d done his shift as watchdog. Plenty of people ran here; the road was more or less an open secret on the runners underground.
By the time I was only about a city block from Confidence, I slowed, knowing it was time to turn around. I glanced at my fitness tracker to see how many miles I’d gone already. If I wanted to talk to Teo, to find some kind of closure and satisfy myself he was all right, I needed to show up at his front door one day and see if he was willing to have a conversation. Despite that, I didn’t turn around. I kept going, and when I got to the property line I sped up again.
The kennel acreage was divided between rows of concrete block kennels with attached runs, play and training yards, and another low-slung building that probably served as an office. The grounds were still well-tended, and the foundation I’d noticed had grown into an unassuming metal storage unit. What I had failed to n
otice was a brick ranch sitting at the edge of the property. Teo probably lived there, maybe with a girlfriend or even a wife, although I probably would have heard if he’d married. Some member of the Seabank Sheriff’s Department would have made sure to let me know that Teo was happier without me.
Usually when I ran past Confidence, I saw activity on the grounds behind the high chain link fences where dogs were trained. Today was no different. In the largest of the enclosed yards, I glimpsed a woman with blond hair guiding a dog tethered on a long leash between boxes in a field. They were too far away for me to tell more, but they were both running, and I slowed to see if I could tell what the dog was supposed to do.
I caught more movement out of the corner of my eye, and saw a man coming toward her from across the field. Even now, all these years later, I easily recognized Teo, although the last time I’d seen him, his gait had been much different. Then he’d been recovering from a gunshot and learning to walk with both a brace and pain so fierce that more often than not, he couldn’t put weight on his injured leg.
I wasn’t worried I might be seen. The sun was shining through the trees to my left, and the distance and glare would easily hide my identity. I sped up anyway, making a wide circle and heading back the way I’d come. But not before I saw the woman stop what she was doing, and throw her arms around Teo’s shoulders for a hug.
* * *
Back at the town house the doorbell rang as I was drying off after a long shower. By the time I dressed and went downstairs to answer it, no one was there, but a package the size of a paperback novel had been shoved nearly out of sight under the tall podocarpus trees beside the front door.
Inside, I scanned the label, assuming it was something for my sister, but the package was for me. Far odder was the return address, which was the town house itself. Since I wasn’t in the habit of sending myself mail, and since I’m eternally suspicious, I noted the postmark, Cross City, Florida, and went to my computer. A minute later I’d learned that Cross City was a town west of Gainesville, with fewer than two thousand residents. Most likely nobody I knew lived there, and certainly nobody who knew Wendy’s address. I’d found information on where to eat and go to church, but not much else.
By now I was almost sure who the package was from. I picked it up once more and lifted it to my ear. Bombs today aren’t the Wile E. Coyote variety with dynamite wired to a ticking alarm clock, but cartoon habits die hard. The package was silent, and I was left with two options. Since I didn’t want to plunge the box into a bathtub filled with water, I unwrapped it carefully and pulled out a burner phone.
I breathed my sister’s name. “Wendy.”
A note was attached to the box in unfamiliar handwriting. I read it out loud. “‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you.’”
Was Wendy back in Florida? The handwriting wasn’t hers. Wendy’s handwriting is neat and precise, like pared-down calligraphy. This was perfectly readable, but the letters were sprawling and uneven. Wendy’s worst scrawl was more accomplished than this.
Had she enlisted a friend to mail the package? And what about the note?
I went back to the computer, and this time I searched for local businesses in Cross City and found one called Risk-Free Remailer.
“Gotcha.”
Remailing services exist to keep secrets. After ditching her cell phone, Wendy had probably purchased a prepaid phone, a burner, something she could do almost anywhere. If she paid for the phone with cash, no record of the purchase would be linked to her, since no identification would have been needed.
But overachiever that she was, my sister hadn’t bought just one, she’d bought two. Whether it was necessary or not, she’d been trying to think like law enforcement. If the authorities got around to checking my cell phone, so they could look for calls from my sister, they might find repeated calls from a cloaked number I couldn’t explain. Now, instead, those calls would be on the burner in my hand, the burner no one would know about, the one Wendy had probably expressed to the remailing service to be sent to me.
My sister was thinking like a criminal.
I set the burner down, unhappy to own it, but glad that at least she planned to communicate. Of course the note was clearly a joke. Because how could I call her? I didn’t have her number and probably never would.
Contacting Risk-Free Remailer was certain to be a dead end, but I tried anyway. When I hung up a few minutes later, my hunch had been confirmed. Risk-Free meant exactly that. A remailing service provided everything a client needed to keep identity and location secret, handwritten letters, trips to a variety of post offices for different postmarks, delayed mailing and much more. Paperwork that had to do with any transaction was shredded immediately. Even if Risk-Free had wanted to help me—which, of course, they hadn’t—they no longer had records.
I shoved the phone into the pocket of the shorts I’d changed into and went upstairs to search the girls’ room.
After batting zero in the closet filled with pretty little dresses and too many matching shoes, I was backing out when my pocket vibrated.
I had the phone to my ear in seconds. The caller’s name was blocked, but who else could it be?
“Wendy, what the hell?”
“Don’t lecture, please. I see you got the phone.”
“Exactly what I’ve always wanted. Are you okay?”
Her sigh sounded like a gust of wind. “Okay? How can I be okay?”
“For a start, come home. We can work this out.”
“No, we can’t. I have to be here to do that. I’m sorry, but I’m stuck for now.” She sounded like she was about to burst into tears.
I plopped down on the nearest bed, trying to stay calm. “Are you safe where you are? Is someone trying to hurt you?”
“I’m safe.”
“You’re safe where?”
“Ryan, it’s just better you don’t know, okay? In case the cops show up.”
Frustrated, my voice grew louder. “Are they going to show up?”
“I honestly don’t know what they know. I don’t know what they think.”
“You weren’t calling from Phoenix, were you? Before, I mean. There’s not one murder on record there you could have been involved in.”
“Look, I can only tell you one thing today, okay? And please don’t say no. It’s important, and it’s something you can do. There’s a man involved in this. I won’t say how, but his name is Milton Kerns.” Her voice broke on the last word, as if it had taken everything to say that out loud.
“Who is he and how is he involved?”
“I think he may have had something to do with what happened. He grew up in Costa Rica. I know that much. But I need you to see what you can find out about him because you have better resources for that kind of thing. Because of the podcast, I mean. I can’t tell you what to look for, because I don’t know. Whatever you can find. Can you do that?”
“You have a name and the place he grew up but nothing else?”
“I’m sorry, but that’s it for now. I’m trying to keep everybody safe.”
For a moment I was touched that my goddess sister was turning to me for help, and everything else fell away. I had never believed the balance of power in our relationship could change this drastically. We were so far apart in age and experience that I had never expected to have an impact on Wendy’s life, and now she was turning to me for help.
Then the still, small voice of a journalist made itself heard. No matter what I felt, if I was really going to have an impact, I had to dig for more. Starting with a confrontation, whether Wendy liked it or not.
“You told me you were in Phoenix. But I don’t think you were even in Arizona, and I’m guessing you weren’t in California, either, which is what you told Mom.”
“Just do this for me, please? I’m still hoping I won’t be implicated, and the whole thing will blow over. If it does, there
’s no reason for anyone in the family to know details.”
Was she worried about us, or was she worried about her reputation? What could she have done that she didn’t want us to know about?
I tried again. “Are you afraid we’ll report you to the authorities because we think that’s best for you? We aren’t going to do that, Wendy, but I still think you aren’t giving the cops enough credit. Why would they pin this on you if you had nothing to do with it?”
“You know if the police think I might be guilty of murder, they’ll find a way to pin it on me. And I’m not guilty of anything, Ryan, nothing, except being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Mom and Dad aren’t going to be content with a made-up story, not for much longer.”
“Don’t tell them anything, and for sure, don’t tell Bryce. I don’t want to worry him with everything already on his shoulders. I’ll call again when I can. Keep the phone handy.”
There was an audible click, three beeps, and our call was over. I checked the phone’s menu, but, of course, Wendy’s number was blocked. There might be an app or a service to unblock it, one that would help me call her back. But having her number wouldn’t tell me where she was. If she didn’t want to say more, she wouldn’t. I could prod until her girls were writing essays for their college applications, and Wendy wouldn’t budge.
Her girls. Holly and Noelle had made their way into my head for a good reason. Wendy hadn’t asked about them. She hadn’t asked how they were, what I had told them about her absence, or if they were eating and sleeping or doing well in school. During our phone call, the girls had apparently been far from my sister’s thoughts.
I tried to put myself in Wendy’s place, which was impossible because I still knew so little. But when I tried to guess how I would feel as a mother separated from her young children, I was pretty sure I would be begging for information and reassurance.
A Family of Strangers Page 8
