Obsessed

by Jenn Faulk

  I call Maggie.

  “Hello?”

  I can hear the hope in her voice—that just the sight of my number on her phone made her heart start racing at the thought that I might have information about Emma.

  “Maggie? This is Peter.”

  “I know.”

  “Listen,” I say. I don’t want to tell her this for several reasons, but I do it anyway. “I know that you don’t want to hear this, but we need to go visit Crystal.”

  ~Maggie~

  These houses are huge.

  That’s one of the thoughts that I keep coming back to as Peter drives me to Brandon’s house.

  Yes, I’m finally going to see Brandon’s house. We’re going to go and speak with Crystal.

  I had my doubts about this when Peter talked to me on the phone. I don’t know if we’re walking ourselves into a situation, a potentially dangerous situation, as I don’t know what Crystal knows, what she’s capable of, and what she might do if our news about Emma makes her violent. I’m not so concerned, given that Peter is with me.

  Peter, who despite his buttoned up and starched clothing choices which keep most of his form well hidden, appears to be quite capable of protecting himself. I can tell by the width of his shoulders, the way he carries himself, and the muscles in his arms that are flexed even now as he grips the steering wheel of his car, that he’s strong enough to keep me safe.

  Yes, I feel safer with a man. That probably puts me on some archaic, old fashioned list out there and is probably at least part of the reason I fell for Brandon, who is seventeen years my senior and made me feel safe because he was established, smart, and so confident.

  I look over to Peter, who despite the way he looks, is the quintessential non-Brandon. Both of them are attractive, but Brandon is especially mindful of the way he looks. He’s always in stylish clothes, always with a haircut that makes him look younger than he is, and always put together, topped off with that smile of his and those eyes that had me from the first moment we met.

  Peter, however, doesn’t appear to care what he looks like. It could be that he prefers clothes that a man fifty years older than him would wear, and it just might be his intention to leave his house every day with his hair gelled into something that likely rivals concrete in terms of stability, with angles and lines so perfect that I think he must have calculated his hair style with a tape measure. His eyes are honest, though, and his infrequent smiles reveal a handsomeness that just might be more pronounced if he put a little effort into it. As it is, though, the most defining thing about Peter is the distinct lack of confidence that he exudes.

  That, and he’s just . . . odd.

  He’s spent the majority of the drive adjusting air vents. Move the right one up a fraction of an inch. Then the left one. Back and forth, back and forth, until he glances over at me, wondering why I’m watching him.

  Like he is now.

  “What?” he asks, concern in his eyes. That and confusion.

  I force a smile and say, “Oh, just . . . big houses.” I wave at the window and turn my attention there, hoping he won’t say anything else, that I won’t have to make polite conversation.

  He doesn’t say anything else, mercifully. He just directs his eyes forward again as we continue driving through one of many affluent neighborhoods and stops playing with the air vents.

  Brandon’s neighborhood is near the beach. Of course, there isn’t much in this town that isn’t near the beach. Everything here draws attention back to the ocean and to the myriad of shops and restaurants catering to the tourists, all along the pristine, perfect shoreline. Even the homes, which are opulent and extravagant, seem to face the ocean from their privileged places, as proud and haughty as the people who live in them.

  Okay, so I’m a little bitter, seeing what Crystal has.

  I live in a two-bedroom apartment near campus. An “economy” is what the university calls it. While I should be thankful that the rent is subsidized for students like me who are trying to get in the last few hours for a degree while working and raising a family, I just find myself frustrated that Emma is living my reality instead of her father’s.

  This is Brandon’s reality. Wherever he has Emma now, is this what she’s living?

  I shake my head just slightly, not wanting to think about where he’s taken her, how confused she must be, and how I forgot to send her favorite bear, Mr. Snuffles, with her because of how rushed Brandon was to leave. Has she been able to sleep without it? Does Brandon even know that she has to have it?

  This isn’t what I wanted for her, all of this bitterness I feel and all the confusion she must have, going from one parent to the other all the time. She’s never known any different, but surely she’s confused now, wondering where I am, wondering why I’m not there to tuck her in at night. I didn’t want this. I let myself believe after Brandon and I were done that life could go on. In time, I would probably meet someone else, fall in love, get married, and have more children. Emma would have a brother, like I had Tanner, then more sisters and more brothers, just like I did when my mom married Seth and they started adding to our family.

  Emma could have had a real family. Everyone needs a family. But I’m not sure I can ever trust anyone enough to make that happen. Not after she’s disappeared like this. How can I ever trust another man?

  I look over at Peter and force my mind back from this fruitless thinking. I need a distraction, something to keep me from the grief. I think about asking him if he has a family. Brothers, sisters, people who care about him. But before I can say anything, he pulls into the driveway of one of the mansions just like all the others.

  Then, he takes a breath and says just this.

  “We’re here.”

  ~Peter~

  The thing about my hacking skills is that they are limited by my overall knowledge of who is doing business where. If I know that you’re banking with CrazyLoanSharks.com, for example, I can probably get into your account. But I can’t plow through thousands of sites to determine if you have an account there. I need to have that information ahead of time.

  I don’t have a clue if Crystal has other accounts or not. She could easily live off what Brandon provides her with and that might be that, but if she does have other accounts, I can probably rule her out as an accomplice to what’s going on. (No. I need to be able to definitely rule her out, not probably rule her out. No more probablys.)

  “Are you ready?” I ask Maggie. She nods but doesn’t look ready at all.

  In spite of this, I nod back, and we each open our door. I couldn’t run around and open hers if I wanted to. She went too fast.

  So confusing.

  As we head up to the front door, Maggie asks, “What if she’s not home?”

  “She is,” I say confidently.

  “How do you know that she’s home?” Maggie whispers.

  I lift up my phone and swipe the screen, holding it out to show her that a text was just generated from Crystal’s phone not three minutes ago.

  I can’t leave yet, it said. They called and said they’d be here to deliver at two . . .

  Maggie looks at me with surprise in her eyes.

  “Well, that’s creepy,” she murmurs. “And brilliant.”

  She smiles.

  It’s the first time she’s ever given me a real smile, and my heart flips inside my chest just a little. Not because she’s even prettier when she smiles (which she is), but because she just said that she thinks I’m brilliant.

  “Not really,” I admit, shrugging. “I mean Brandon gave me his passwords and everything.”

  She nods, the smile fading from her face as she turns toward the door. Together, we walk up the steps, and then I reach out to push a little white button, surrounded by fancy bronzed scrollwork. Exorbitant.

  Sometimes when you ring a doorbell, you can hear it from outside. When I ring this one, I hear nothing. I also hear no footsteps. But within just a few seconds, the door opens, making the sound of a vacuum seal breakin
g as it does so.

  A woman who looks like she’s in her thirties opens the door. She smiles and nods as if she’s expecting us, but then looks confused.

  “Are you from QuestServe?” she asks, her confused look quickly turning into one of suspicion as she somehow realizes that we are not from QuestServe.

  “Um. No,” I say, shaking my head. “Are you Crystal Keller?”

  She furrows her brow. “Can I help you with something?”

  I glance at Maggie who doesn’t look like she’s breathing, much less getting ready to answer that question. Right or wrong, I keep going.

  “We, um. Uhhh, my name is Peter Garrison and um, the police asked me to help them when your husband reported that his accounts had been compromised?”

  She looks from me, to Maggie, and then back to me again before nodding.

  “Okay,” she says, giving me another slow nod.

  “And, um,” I continue, trying to figure out how to not lie. “I just had some questions to ask you if you have a minute.”

  She glances back and forth between the two of us again and then gives me a final nod before opening the door even wider and ushering us in.

  Not smart. We could be so getting ready to rob her.

  I put my hand on the small of Maggie’s back to get her moving because I don’t think she’s going to go on her own. I have a feeling that prodding a woman along is not at all in line with the feminist movement, but Maggie seems to be in a different world right now, so hopefully she won’t even remember it later.

  Maggie’s flip flops slap against the marbled tile as Crystal leads us through a vast foyer and into a formal living room. Everything is white. White plush carpet. White upholstery. Shimmering white window treatments.

  “Have a seat,” Crystal invites, indicating a white leather couch with a sweep of her hand. She doesn’t add, “if you want.” It’s obvious that she is comfortable and confident in every movement and statement she makes. Unlike me, Crystal is a person who second-guesses nothing.

  “Thank you,” I say. My hand is still on the small of Maggie’s back, and I guide her to the couch. After she sits down, I sit next to her and remove my hand. I look at Crystal carefully.

  She is wearing a crisp, white sleeveless button down shirt and black pants that have a sharp crease and fall to her calves. On her feet are black and silver sandals that show off blood red toenails, the result of an immaculate pedicure. They match her nails and—for the first time—I think about Maggie’s toes. I’d noticed her flip flops, but never the fact that her toenails don’t have a bit of polish on them. Her daughter’s missing. Understandably, she hasn’t had time to get a pedicure, but I have a feeling that unpainted toenails are the norm for her because Emma’s only been gone for a few days and surely she didn’t at some point decide, “I don’t have time to take care of my nails right now. I’m just going to take this polish off until Emma gets back home and then—”

  “So you’re with the police?” Crystal asks, jolting me away from thoughts of pedicures.

  Careful here, Peter . . .

  “Uh, no,” I say, looking at her directly. “When the police began investigating the report that your husband filed, they hired me as a consultant. I spoke with your husband at length. He wanted me to help him find out where the money went.”

  “He said they think he did it,” Crystal tells me, looking back at me just as directly. “He said they quit investigating.”

  “Uh, yes,” I agree. “Initially that’s how things looked, but now that he’s gone missing, we’ve examined things a bit closer and we were hoping to speak with you to get a bit more information.”

  I don’t make it clear that the “we” I’m referring to is me and Maggie, not me and the police. Not exactly lying, but not exactly honest, either. I feel more than a pang of guilt, but quickly remind myself that Maggie hasn’t seen her little girl in five days. If Crystal doesn’t ask for a clarification on what exactly I mean by “we,” well, she has no one to blame but herself.

  “Who exactly is ‘we’?” Crystal asks.

  Crap.

  “Uh, we is, uh, me and, uh,” I gesture toward Maggie who looks like she could pass out at any moment. Crystal doesn’t miss a beat.

  “And who exactly are you?” she asks, looking directly at Maggie. Crystal is being polite enough, but also very no-nonsense. I hear Maggie take a soft breath.

  “I, um,” Maggie begins. I find myself proud of her for reasons unknown when she manages to finish, “My name is Maggie.”

  Crystal continues to look directly at Maggie, and I watch the expression on her face change almost imperceptibly. She doesn’t take her eyes off Maggie when she states, “You’re Emma’s mother.”

  Crap. Oh crap. Oh crap. Oh crap.

  I glance at Maggie, watch her eyes widen, and become pretty certain that, “My name is Maggie,” is going to be her one and only contribution to the conversation. Not that she’s been a lot of help so far, but now I’m completely on my own.

  I recover remarkably quickly and turn back to Crystal. She’s not angry, she seems . . . removed. Removed from the situation. Removed from the fact that this woman—sitting on her couch—mothered her husband’s child. She lifts a meticulously sculpted eyebrow and continues to survey Maggie.

  “Ms. Moore and I are very interested in speaking with your husband, Ms. Keller,” I say quickly. “We’d just like to know where Emma is and—”

  “I can’t help you,” Crystal interrupts, standing up. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  She’s still speaking in the same polite, no-nonsense tone, but there is absolutely no question that Maggie and I are getting ready to leave whether we want to or not.

  “Certainly,” I say, nodding. I stand up and then reach down to tap Maggie’s arm, encouraging her to rise, too. She doesn’t budge, though. She looks up at Crystal and opens her mouth in dismay.

  “I didn’t know he was married!” she blurts out, shaking her head. Then she stands. Still shaking her head, she says again, “I didn’t know.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” Crystal says, still calm and collected. Still confident. “But I’m afraid I can’t help you, and I want you to leave.”

  She turns her eyes to me and narrows them. “Now.”

  Calm and collected is threatening to quickly fly out the window.

  “Of course,” I say, putting my hand on the small of Maggie’s back again and steering her back to the foyer. I don’t worry for a second whether she’s a feminist or not, and I open the door for her. As soon as we’re outside, Maggie turns around and calls out to Crystal.

  “Please help me,” she pleads. “I didn’t know. I promise you I didn’t know. I just want—”

  But I’ve pulled the door toward us, and when it shuts, Maggie stops talking. She stares at me, tears welling up in her eyes.

  “Keep going,” I say quietly, continuing to guide her. We walk to my car, and I open that door for her, too. I start to shut it, but she puts her hand out, stopping me.

  “But she didn’t tell us anything,” Maggie protests. “We don’t know any more than we did before we got here!”

  “Yes, we do. We’ve got everything we need.”

  She looks at me questioningly, but I don’t elaborate. I just move her arm gently out of the way, close her door, and then walk briskly around to the driver’s side of the car. When I get in, she’s still looking at me with the same expression on her face.

  “Just hang on a second,” I say, starting the car. I glance up at the house, expecting to see Crystal watching us leave, but if she’s there, I can’t see her.

  “What?” Maggie asks after I’ve backed out of the driveway and driven several hundred feet. “What did we get that we need?”

  “QuestServe,” I say, glancing at her.

  “What?”

  “She asked us if we were with QuestServe,” I remind her. “She was waiting for a delivery. It was from QuestServe.”

  “What’
s QuestServe?”

  “No idea,” I admit, shaking my head. “But she didn’t use one of Brandon’s credit cards to order from them, I know that much.”

  Maggie looks at me for a moment, obviously thinking, and then says, “So?”

  “So,” I explain. “It probably means that she has an account with them in just her name. Something she set up—not Brandon.”

  Maggie is still looking at me, and I can tell that she doesn’t get it yet, so I go on. “If I can get into that account, it’s going to open a million doors for us.”

  “It’ll help us find Emma?” she wants to know.

  “I hope so,” I say, nodding.

  Maggie is quiet for a moment before turning her eyes from me and looking out the windshield. She continues to stare straight ahead before finally responding in a voice so soft that I can barely hear her.

  “I hope so, too.”

  ~Maggie~

  You’re Emma’s mother.

  How did she know that? How long has she known it? Does Brandon know that she knows?

  Has he ever taken Emma around this woman?

  While I should be thinking about nothing but the fact that Peter says we’ve learned enough in this meeting to get us closer to Emma, I find myself concentrating on the wounds that horrible encounter with Crystal Keller have just dealt me.

  She was just what I imagined she would be. Rich, with everything from the expensive highlights in her hair, to the work she’s likely had done on her face, her designer clothes, to her perfectly pedicured toes giving evidence of just how wealthy she is.

  I’m a blatant contrast, with my boring hair, my bargain sale clothes, and my sad feet.

  We have different priorities, Crystal and I. This should be a comfort to me, knowing how different we are, and it should keep me from comparing myself to her. I don’t even care what Brandon thinks of me anymore, and yet still, I feel so much worse about myself after just two minutes spent in the presence of the other woman, the woman he obviously must have compared me to, the woman who knew all about me all along.