If I'm Found

by Terri Blackstock

  By the time I hear Lydia and Caden coming home from wherever they’ve been, I’ve found some semblance of calm. I can do this. I have to. I’m not giving up this easily.

  I go to the mirror. I look too much like myself. I quickly apply more eyeliner again before I get back into bed, in case Caden demands to talk to me.

  Tomorrow I’ll start again.

  34

  CASEY

  The next morning when I show up for work, everyone in the workroom is standing around the TV. The morning news is on, and they’re showing the weather. When I walk in, Cole looks up. He still looks tired, dark circles under his eyes, but there is a light in them that I haven’t seen for a few days. “Hey, Miranda, can I talk to you?”

  I’m probably in trouble. He must have realized that I’m the one who went to the media. I follow him into the break room, hoping he doesn’t notice the scrapes on my chin and hands.

  “Somehow the media got wind of all the things we talked about regarding the Trendalls.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that,” I say.

  “So . . . did you go to them with that information?”

  I try not to indicate with my expression whether I did or not. “What difference does it make? The important thing is that people are aware of what they’ve done. If it gets you your kids back, your job . . .”

  He sighs. “If you did, I want to thank you. I told you not to do it before, but if you did it anyway, I’m glad. You’ve been a good friend to me, even though I don’t know you that well.”

  I can’t manage a smile. “I’m glad to hear that,” I say. “I just don’t like to see injustice. It kind of got under my skin.”

  “Well, it’s not over yet.” He goes to the coffeepot, pours two cups of coffee, hands one to me. “We go to youth court about custody of the kids tomorrow. I’m hoping that since I’ve moved out, they’ll let my wife have them back. At least then we’ll know they’re safe.”

  “It’s just all wrong,” I say. “It shouldn’t be possible for you to lose your kids that easily. And to have them put in a shelter instead of placed with family members. That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “Tell me about it,” he says.

  Out in the workroom, there’s a cheer, and we run out and see that his segment is on the news again. A hush falls over the room, and we watch as they show new things they’ve uncovered about the Trendalls, things I didn’t even tell them. It was just what I’d hoped, that once I gave them the initial facts, they would go at it like a dog with a bone. I’m so thankful they did. Some of my coworkers mention that the other news networks are picking it up, and that it was in the paper this morning.

  When the segment is over, my coworkers cheer again, and they all pat Cole on the back.

  We head to our stations as the TV continues to play. Cole is near the set when a segment comes on about me. I quickly turn toward the wall and continue boxing the seat that I’m working on. I hear the anchorman talking about me, and I know they’ve got that notorious picture of me up on the screen, the picture where I look like myself, the one before my life fell apart. I hope I’ve put on enough eyeliner this morning, and the smoky eyes and teased black hair will distract people’s attention. But hopes can only go so far.

  Sources close to the investigation cite the suicide of Casey Cox’s father Andy Cox when she was twelve years old as a contributing factor to her state of mind. Psychologist Bill Pennington said that sometimes an event like that can trigger flashbacks later on and result in a patient reacting in an unpredictable, sometimes violent, way.

  I turn and glance at Cole, and suddenly his eyes turn from the screen to me. Our eyes lock for a moment, and I can almost see the wheels turning in his head as he remembers my telling him my dad’s death was ruled a suicide when I was twelve. The hairs on my neck rise.

  He knows.

  He slides his hands into his pockets and, with a stricken expression, turns back to the screen. He stares at it, frozen for a moment, then frowns down at the floor. His ears redden and his breathing grows heavier as he works through it in his head. What will he decide to do with the fugitive standing in his workroom . . . the one who talked him off a bridge?

  It’s over.

  I don’t say a word to anyone. I just get my purse from under my station, leave the workroom, and walk through the office and out the front door. I get into my car and drive away before anyone can stop me, fully expecting police cars to surround me any minute.

  I take back roads. When no one follows me, I begin to breathe again. But I know I can’t even go back to Miss Naomi’s. I can’t count on him not telling the police that I’ve been there right under his nose. I can’t count on him being loyal to me in any way. Why should he be? In a panic, I decide that I’ll have to get out of town as fast as I can.

  But first I want to go by Candace Price’s one last time. I head that way, praying for a crumb of evidence I can use before I’m found.

  35

  CASEY

  I sit in my car on Candace’s street while I figure out what I should do next. Her car’s in the driveway, and there’s a red Jaguar convertible next to it that I haven’t seen before.

  I park in front of a different house where it looks like no one is home. If someone jogs by and asks me what I’m doing, I can tell them that I’m waiting for their neighbor to get home. I watch the house for a while and see no one. The sports car sits in her circular driveway, and I consider walking up to it and looking in the window, but that would be suicide, because she probably has a security system with cameras.

  So I sit in my car and try to think what I need to buy before I get out of town. At Miss Naomi’s, I’ve left my bag with my few clothes, most of my makeup, and the toiletries that I’ve bought since being here. There’s food in the fridge that will go to waste.

  I turn to my backseat and pull out the emergency bag I’ve kept in my car every day since the beginning. It holds my wigs and alternate driver’s license and social security card, as well as a change of clothes and a few other things. I’ve also kept most of my cash there. I’ll be okay.

  It’s so quiet at the Price house that I’ve almost decided to give up and drive away, when I see the front door opening. Candace bops out first, a man behind her. I catch my breath. The man is Gordon Keegan.

  He’s laughing. He catches up to her and puts his arm around her, then takes her to the Jaguar passenger seat and ushers her in like she’s a princess. He bends over and kisses her, closes the door, then almost dances around the car. He gets in and backs into the street. I cannot believe this. It’s too good to be true.

  As I follow them, I take special care to keep several cars between us. It’s not hard to see them up ahead in that red Jag. I try to take pictures with my phone, but I’m not close enough to get any good ones. When they stop at a red light, I’m about four cars down in the next lane over. I can only see the left side of their car tag, but I write down the three letters I can see. The Jag eases ahead slowly, and I get the rest of the tag number.

  I’m no Jay Leno, but I figure the Jag is worth over sixty-five grand. Keegan is driving a little faster than the speed limit, and I fear that if I do the same I’ll be pulled over, so I get farther and farther behind them, trying hard to keep up without calling attention to myself. He gets on an interstate and I follow, straining to see that red spot up ahead, zigging in and out of traffic. Then I see them turn off. The exit sign says Lake Ron Hubbard.

  As soon as I can, I take the same exit. Then I manage to follow them down several roads until they come to a marina. I pull in on the outskirts of the parking lot as they go in deeper. Luckily, I can see the Jag as Keegan parks it. They close the convertible top, then jump out and grab stuff out of their trunk. They walk down a dock to a yacht that’s moored there. A couple of other cars have just pulled up and families are getting out, so I quickly get out and follow the groups of people as they walk toward the lake.

  I’ve never been here before, but it’s beautiful and huge. I didn�
�t know fresh bodies of water had yachts that sailed in them, but clearly they do. I stand among several people fishing over a pier railing and try to see which yacht Keegan and Candace got on. There they are. They’re not pulling out; they’re just sitting on the deck seats looking out over the water, drinking. Keegan is talking on the phone now, and I wonder whether he’s finding out something about me. Has Cole called and reported me already? Has the call been routed to Keegan? Is he freaked out knowing I’m here, in Dallas? Does he realize that I’m here to get evidence on him?

  I go back to my car. I sit there behind the wheel with my AC running to combat the heat. I watch the parking lot, waiting for him to come back up the dock, but he doesn’t. After a while, I venture back to the water. They’re still out there, this time with a couple of friends. If I could just get close enough to that boat to get the name or a number or some kind of evidence that would allow us to track the ownership of it . . . something I could connect to him and give to Dylan or whoever might care. I pretend to be checking my texts, but I take pictures of the yacht and the people on it, zooming in as close as I can with my digital limitations.

  When they’ve been out there three hours and nothing seems to be happening, I get a surge of bravery, and I walk down the dock past the other boats until I get to the one Keegan and his girlfriend are on. I hear laughter, and his voice rising, just out of my sight on the other sundeck of the boat. There is a name on the boat—Kandy Kane—with K’s. I take a picture and zoom in on the model name over the back deck, then I get the number painted on the side. I hurry back to my car.

  I’m pretty sure Keegan didn’t spot me, and I need more before I get out of town. I’m so close. I don’t know anything about yachts—I don’t know a stern from a prow—and I’m clueless whether their names are registered somewhere or just for private use. I write down the number on the side. Maybe there’s a database somewhere that will tell who owns it. The boat is a Myacht 4515. That should help me narrow it down.

  The fact that Keegan’s still on the boat gives me reason to wonder if Cole has called the police about me yet. Maybe he’s hesitating because of what I’ve done for his family, or he’s gotten bogged down in bureaucratic sludge and hasn’t been able to get the message to the right person yet. Or maybe he hasn’t called, since he knows what it’s like to be falsely accused. Maybe he’s giving me the benefit of the doubt.

  But that’s wishful thinking. It’s more likely Keegan is supervising, via cell phone from his boat, a battalion of police who are searching the entire Dallas–Fort Worth metropolitan area for me.

  I’m getting hungry, so I leave my car again, this time carrying my emergency duffel bag in case I can’t get back to my car. I walk to a food cart where I buy a hot dog and fries, and sit at a picnic table that gives me a good view of them, my back to the sun. If they stay where they are, the blinding glare of the descending sun will keep them from seeing me.

  After a while, I turn away from them for a moment and watch the sun going down. It hits the water with a splendor unequaled by anything man can produce, then descends beneath the waterline. I send up a prayer that God will give me the insight and evidence to do what I need to do to put Keegan and his co-criminals away once and for all. I wonder how Jesus will translate that prayer.

  As twilight seeps into the sky, I keep my perch at my picnic table until I see the lights going out on the Kandy Kane. Maybe they’re leaving now. I get up and walk slowly back until I can see them in the streetlights over the parking lot. Keegan is at the trunk of the sports car, loading up the things they brought, and Candace is putting her things into the passenger side of the car. Their friends, parked nearby, are talking to them, loading their own car. By the time I’ve walked the length of the parking lot, along the far side from them, I don’t see the red Jag anymore, so I assume they’ve already driven away. I’ll have to catch up to them at Candace’s house.

  I’m hurrying toward my car when headlights come bolting toward me. I can’t see the car behind them, but it’s about to hit me. I dive out of the way, hitting the ground and rolling under a car as the vehicle just misses me.

  It’s the red Jaguar.

  I doubt that he can see me after I’m out of the headlights’ glare, so I scramble up and get to my car, crouching and keeping my head down. I crawl into the driver’s seat, and the interior light comes on for an instant until I ease the door closed. I see lights in my rearview mirror. Is Keegan rounding the lot again, looking for me? I glance out the back and see the sports car, so I duck.

  He comes back around twice more, slowing as he gets to where he almost ran me over.

  I hear children’s voices and raise my head enough to see two families headed to cars near me. I start my engine, keeping my lights off. As both groups load their stuff into their cars, I see that the sports car is parked now on the other side of the lot. Keegan is probably looking for me on foot now.

  I reach for my bag, grab the first wig I touch, and pull it on. As the car two down from me pulls out, I turn on my lights and pull out behind it.

  Keegan is standing between parked cars as I pull past him. With the short red wig on, I don’t look like the girl he saw, and I smile and wave to the car in front of me, to give the illusion that I’m with them. He turns away from me and scans the parking lot as I drive away.

  I fly through the streets, making random turns until I’m sure I’m not followed. It’s half an hour before I’m confident that I’ve lost him.

  36

  CASEY

  I’m in lots of trouble. If Keegan saw me, then he not only knows I’m in Dallas, he knows how I’m wearing my hair, how my eyes are disguised, and that I’m stalking him. I’m sunk.

  I take a minute to swap my license plate with one from another car. I’m panicked, shaking. I need to leave town now, but I’m so close to getting what I need on him.

  I want to go lock myself in my room with the covers over my head, but I don’t think it’s safe.

  I have to get to Candace’s house and see what Keegan does next. This is key to my case. I can’t drop the ball now.

  My mind races as I fly back to Candace’s street. The sports car’s back there now, so I sit in my car at my usual place, where the people still don’t seem to be home. Nothing’s happening, so I take the time to load my pictures onto my computer. Just in case I get arrested tonight, I send an email to Dylan, and I attach all the pictures and tell him that Candace Price is Keegan’s mistress and that he was in Dallas with her tonight, that they have a yacht called the Kandy Kane docked at the Watershed Marina, and a Jaguar, a Mercedes, and a mansion. I’ve just hit Send when Keegan comes out of the house.

  I slap my laptop screen shut, my heart pounding, sure he must be coming for me. I fully expect police cars to come from all directions and circle me, but they don’t. Keegan loads his suitcase into his car. Candace turns on the porch light and comes out to give him a long kiss, then she walks him to the driver’s side. She goes back inside as he pulls out of the driveway.

  I’m afraid he’s baiting me, but I follow him anyway, staying back and keeping my lights off until I turn onto the busier road. I have no idea where we’re going, but it’s not the same direction as before. He turns down several roads, then I finally see where we’re headed. It’s a small airport just a few miles from Candace’s house. He pulls the Jaguar into the parking lot. Knowing he’ll see my car when I drive in, I wait until another car pulls in, then I follow, parking off to the side. Keegan hops out and gets his suitcase. He pulls a protective slipcover out of his trunk and puts it on his car, as if he doesn’t plan to be back for a while. I watch the other driver get out of his car and go into a building.

  Keegan turns and heads out between the buildings to the tarmac where the planes are parked. I wait a few minutes, then get out of my car, close the door quietly, and follow between two other buildings. Pressing myself against the side brick wall, I watch him walk to a plane. He opens the cargo door and lifts his suitcase in, then unlocks the
pilot door and does something inside.

  So he has a plane too. This guy has made a lot of illegal money and he seems to enjoy spending it. Should I walk closer to get a picture? No, it’s just too dangerous under the bright tarmac lights. I watch him do his pre-check and I take pictures, but I can’t zoom close enough to get the tail number. After a few minutes, he starts the engine and begins to taxi out. I snap pictures as he takes off, but I know they’re not clear enough to be useful.

  When his plane is far enough away, I run back to the sports car and quickly roll back the cover. Using the flashlight on my phone, I find the VIN number and take a picture of it. Then I photograph the license plate.

  I get back into my car. Before I even start the engine, I load the pictures onto my computer and send them to Dylan.

  He still hasn’t responded to the last emails I sent. Now that I’ve got the evidence I need, probably more evidence than I ever could’ve hoped to have, I have to figure out what to do next. Where will I go? I’m certain Keegan saw me, but maybe that’s why he’s hightailing it back to Shreveport. Maybe he’s regrouping, getting backup, and returning to find me.

  Still wearing my short red wig, I drive about an hour west of Dallas and get a hotel room there. I sink into bed, afraid to even check the news. I try to sleep, but the silence is too loud, and my thoughts race.

  At two a.m. I turn the TV on. I flip the channels until I find a Dallas station, and try to sleep to the low sound of an infomercial.

  Sleep still evades me, and I find myself listening to models and actresses touting the magic properties of the latest skin care product. It’s so convincing that I almost call the number, but I don’t have a credit card or an address, or even a name that’s mine.