by Jenn Faulk
She’s not the other woman. I am.
Stupid Maggie.
I’m not sure why it was so important to me that she heard my words, about how I didn’t know Brandon was married, as though she could offer me redemption for the mistakes I’ve made. Why would she do that for me? And furthermore, why would she do anything to help me find Emma? She knew more than I thought she did about the simple fact that Emma exists, so it’s not such a stretch to imagine that she knows plenty about where she is now.
I glance over at Peter as we drive away, wondering what’s going on in that head of his. QuestServe. Is that really going to give him some answers? Is it possible that Crystal knows something? That she’s involved in Brandon’s disappearance? That she’s been careless enough to leave an electronic trail that will lead us right to him and to Emma?
Of all the things I have to wonder about now, there’s one thing I’m absolutely certain of.
Peter is going to figure this out.
I glance over at him again, watching as all of his attention is on the road ahead of us. My thoughts go back to all that he said and the respect he commanded, not from Crystal but from me as he said the right things and got what he needed from the meeting. I think about his hand on my back, ushering me in almost protectively, then bringing me back out, shielding me from Crystal and more hurtful words, even as I was prepared to turn around and yell my own words—
Oh, I did that. I stood there and begged her to help me. Of all the things I should have done, knowing that she knows about my baby, the words that I could have said about “how dare you live in your fancy house without a care in the world while I lie awake at night crying for my baby,” and . . .
I begged her.
But that’s what I’ve become. All on my own. With no one to help.
Except for Peter.
I glance over at him again, feeling a resolved sense of hope and a reassuring warmth in my heart.
I have him.
~Peter~
There is a way to access his accounts. I know it.
I just have no idea what it is. I’ve been staring at my computer screen for way too long and finally push my chair away slightly from my desk and rub my eyes. Just then, I hear the front door open and shut, followed by the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. Even if Dad hadn’t flown to Austria this morning, I’d know from their quick, light cadence that they belonged to Andrew, and soon he’s knocking on my door and opening it before I can even invite him in.
“So how’d all that go?” he asks, sitting down on the edge of my bed.
“She knew about the kid.”
Andrew’s eyes widen. “She did?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “As soon as she heard the name ‘Maggie’ she knew exactly who she was.”
“Oh, wow,” Andrew said quietly. “What happened?”
“She kicked us out.”
“So you didn’t get any information?”
“Well,” I hesitate. “I found out she was getting a package from QuestServe, so I thought that would do something for me, but . . .”
“But what?”
“She doesn’t have an account with them, but her father does. I thought I could get into his accounts and then that might open something up, but he paid for it with a third party server.”
“Highly encrypted?” Andrew asks. “Multiple layers of security?”
“You have no idea,” I reply. “Plus I know it’s going to lock me out after three attempts or whatever, so I’m just trying to figure out what to do.”
Companies like this that deal exclusively with transferring money for people are the hardest to break into. It’s the companies that simply accept money from people who don’t worry too much about security. Those are usually a snap because they don’t bother investing in higher means to safeguard their customers.
“QuestServe is a courier, right?” Andrew asks.
“Yeah,” I agree, giving him a small nod.
“What did they deliver?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug.
“Well see if you can find out.”
I look at him for a moment and then pull myself back to my computer.
After a moment I find a brief description of what was shipped. I turn and look at Andrew.
“Three golf clubs,” I say.
Andrew looks as unimpressed as I feel. I turn back to the computer screen and stare at it for another moment before something suddenly catches my eye.
“Wait a minute!”
“What?” Andrew asks, leaning forward and looking at the screen with me.
“The insurance is ten thousand dollars!”
“For three golf clubs?”
I glance at Andrew and then scroll down.
“QuestServe picked them up at Terrier’s Auction Company in Shreveport,” I say.
Andrew and I look at one another again, and then he gives me a knowing smile before giving me his best southern drawl, “You reckon that there auction company uses encrypted technology?”
~Maggie~
I make it to work for just a little while that afternoon. Not because I feel like working after the emotional meeting with Crystal but because I need the job.
I was lucky to get it. I’d been working as a barista at a coffee shop when I met Brandon, just doing it part time while my full time work was being a college student, majoring in the ever popular undeclared major. I had time to make a plan. I had all the time in the world.
Then, Brandon happened. Emma happened. College was moved to part time because I had to get a real job, one that would pay for everything, seeing as how my parents were done enabling me as soon as they found out about Brandon and about how I was practically living with a man I wasn’t married to.
My parents are like that. I was, too. But it was easy to put that all aside because what I felt for Brandon was different. Surely the rules didn’t apply because it was so different . . .
Until it wasn’t.
I got this job when I was seven months pregnant, after Brandon and I broke up for good. I’d answered an ad posted at the student center for a filing job at a local insurance agency. Doris, my boss, would have been justified to not hire me at all, given how unqualified I was, how I had never worked a real job, and how I was just a couple of months from maternity leave.
But she hired me that day and has been better than a boss every day since.
I make it into the building a little sooner than I’d estimated I would earlier, when I explained to Doris that I needed some time that morning. I’m walking by her office when she pops her head out, concern on her face.
She knows what’s going on. How could she not when she’s seen me break down and sob while I’m sorting through files?
“Any answers?” she asks, her eyes trailing over my face, looking for clues.
“Maybe,” I answer, choosing to be positive when the truth is that I really don’t know if there’s any reason at all to hope. After Peter dropped me off at my apartment, I began to doubt what we’d really learned. I don’t doubt Peter, but . . .
“Fancy computer guy come up with anything else?” she asks.
Peter, the fancy computer guy.
“He might have,” I say, taking a breath. I try for a smile.
It fails.
“Hey,” Doris says softly, “you’ve got to have faith that eventually, you’re going to get some answers.”
Faith is a tricky thing. I know what she’s saying. I believe her to be genuine, in that she really believes what she’s saying, because I’ve seen the truth of it in her life, in the way she looks out for me here, and in the way she’s been supportive since Emma’s been missing.
But where can my faith be in this situation? God didn’t keep me from all the mistakes I’ve made. And while He’s been good to give me Emma through it all, He’s allowed this to happen.
Who’s to say that He isn’t trying to teach me some horrible, awful lesson that will leave me so wounded and hurt I’ll never, ever recover?
<
br /> I shrug, which is all I can manage.
“I’m praying for you,” Doris says, before she mercifully leaves me alone, after patting my shoulder once, comfortingly.
~Peter~
“You’re pregnant.”
Crystal’s eyes widen in unmistakable surprise. Then she straightens as if making a concerted effort to retain her composure.
“Why don’t you come in?” she asks, opening the door.
Just like this morning, I’m ushered through the foyer and into the formal living room, but this time, Maggie isn’t with me.
“Tell me your name again,” Crystal asks.
“Peter,” I say.
“And you’re with the police?” she asks, her voice tinged with doubt.
“No. I consult with them. Sometimes when they need help, they contact me.”
“So you’re a private investigator.”
“No,” I say again. “I only help them with the computer end of things. I help them track people online.”
She takes a deep breath and seems to think about this.
“So you’ve obviously been in touch with Brandon,” she says.
“No,” I say for a third time, shaking my head.
She gives me a condescending smile.
“Don’t lie to me, Mr. Garrison. Only Brandon and my doctor know that I’m pregnant, and I hardly think my doctor would have shared that information with you.”
“Actually, he did,” I say. “He didn’t mean to, but that’s exactly how I found out.”
“My doctor’s a she . . .”
“She.” I nod. “She’s how I found out.”
Crystal doesn’t say anything.
“That’s what I do,” I explain. “I search databases and follow electronic evidence and—”
“You’re a hacker.”
“Basically,” I admit, giving her another nod.
“And so you broke into my doctor’s records and found out that I’m pregnant. I could have you arrested, you know?”
“Not really,” I say. “I haven’t done anything illegal. I didn’t manipulate the data. I didn’t steal anything or commit any crimes.”
“You’re using the information you found for extortion,” she argues.
“I’m not extorting you,” I argue right back. “I just wanted to talk to you and you were going to slam the door in my face if I didn’t say something.”
She studies my face for a moment.
“I’m not going to tell anyone,” I say, shaking my head. “I just really, really need to talk to you.”
Her face relaxes slightly.
“Why?” she asks. “What do you want?”
I feel my own face relax as well.
“First of all,” I say. “Maggie didn’t know that Brandon was married when she got pregnant with Emma. None of this is really her fault . . .”
Crystal levels her gaze at me. “I’m well aware that my husband is a louse.”
“Well,” I continue. “He took off with her kid. She doesn’t want Brandon, she’s not trying to hurt you or interfere with your life or anything . . . she just wants her little girl back.”
Crystal doesn’t say anything.
“You’re going to be a mom,” I say quietly. “Think about having a child and then all of a sudden that child is gone . . .”
“I’m not going to be a mom,” Crystal says. I look at her, confused, and she goes on. “I have an appointment Thursday. I’m terminating the pregnancy.”
My breath catches in my throat.
“No,” I say softly, shaking my head. “You don’t want to do that.”
“Actually, I do. I’m not about to raise this baby alone.”
“You and Brandon aren’t together anymore?”
“I tell him I’m pregnant,” Crystal says with a shrug, “and he disappears. I’d say we’re probably not together anymore, wouldn’t you?”
I look at her for a moment, feeling almost as sorry for her as I do for Maggie.
“What if something else is going on?” I ask.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But you don’t know that’s why he disappeared.”
She raises an eyebrow at me.
“You’re thirty-nine years old,” I say. “You don’t want to get rid of this baby.”
“I’m not going to raise a baby by myself,” she says again.
“Why not?” I ask. “You could do it. You’ve got plenty of money. You’re a smart woman. You can do anything you set your mind to. What if this is your only chance to be a mom?”
She lowers her eyebrow and doesn’t say anything.
“I’m going to find Brandon,” I say with certainty. “Why don’t you at least wait until I find him and then you can talk to him and just make sure it’s what you want to do?”
Crystal lets out another soft breath.
“You can do anything you want to do,” I say again. “I just . . . I just think you should wait until I find Brandon.”
“I’m not going to make you any promises,” she finally tells me.
We look at each other for a moment.
“But I’ll think about it,” she adds.
I smile at her and she gives me a little smile back, and now I’ve got two reasons to find Brandon.
Fast.
~Maggie~
I haven’t been home even ten minutes when my phone rings. I stop my work in the kitchen, wiping my hands on my shorts, and run to the sound, hoping it’s Peter.
Sure enough, there’s his number.
“Peter,” I breathe, foregoing any small talk. “What did you figure out?”
“Uh, hi,” he says. “I, um, well . . .”
Oh, it’s bad. It has to be bad if he’s sounding this uncertain. I have visions of drug cartels, abductions, all kinds of illogical things.
“What?” I ask, perhaps too forcefully.
“Well, um, I talked to Crystal this afternoon.”
This is unexpected. “She talked to you again?” I ask. Then it occurs to me to ask a better question. “Why did you want to talk to her? Did you find out something about QuestServe?”
“Well, yeah. Her father bought some golf clubs at an auction and was sending them to her for a charity event that her country club is hosting. They were used by Jack Fleck in the 1955 U.S. Open.”
What does this have to do with anything? I’m tempted to say, “And this matters, because?” Before I can, though, Peter speaks up.
“See,” Peter goes on. “Fleck was just this unknown golf pro who’d never won anything before, and he was up against Ben Hogan who’d already won four U.S. Opens . . .”
His voice trails off before he finishes, saying, “It was a major upset.”
Peter pauses.
“So, you and Crystal talked about golf?” I ask. I’m trying to connect what he said with what’s going on, but frankly, I don’t get it. And I feel like we’re wasting time.
“Well, um, golf clubs. She showed them to me. She was pretty proud of them.”
I take a deep breath. Peter is brilliant, I remind myself. And this is just part of being brilliant, I guess. Drifting off topic, off the task, because golf clubs.
Golf clubs.
“That’s great,” I manage. “But did you find out anything about Brandon, the money, or Emma?”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I’m struck by the oddity of the situation. Not golf clubs exactly but the fact that he saw them. He saw Crystal. He didn’t just talk to her.
“Wait,” I say. “You went back to her house?”
“Uh, yeah . . .” Peter stammers. “I had some questions to ask her, and I thought it would be easier in person.”
“And she talked to you?” I ask. I think of how she practically kicked us out with me yelling about my innocence.
“Well, yeah. I mean, she didn’t want to at first, but then she did and . . .” he hesitates. “She’s not that bad once you get to know her.”
Seriously?
“We
ll, if you’re such good friends,” I say, “did she have any insights about where Brandon is?”
I’m not sure why I’m irritated to hear Peter defend her. He’s on my side, right?
Wait. There are no sides in this . . .
“I mean,” I say, trying to be fair, “is she looking for him?”
“Not really,” he says, hesitating again. “I mean, I think she kind of figures he’s gone but she agreed to talk to him again if I find him . . .”
His voice trails off.
What?
“If she wasn’t any help then,” I ask, “why did you go to talk to her? And furthermore, why wouldn’t she be worried about her husband disappearing?”
Surely she’d be less ambivalent about it all, even if their marriage was bad. I mean, she owns half the fortune that’s disappeared, right?
“Well,” he says, stammering again. “I think she just thought he left her . . . and I didn’t know she wasn’t going to be any help until after I talked to her . . .”
“She was a dead end, then,” I say, and I physically feel the disappointment of this. “What are we going to do now?”
“I don’t think she knows anything about where he is,” he admits. “And I don’t think she had anything to do with the money in his accounts disappearing. She helps her dad a lot . . . I think she’s pretty set.”
I take another breath, blinking back tears. Did I think that there would be something to this? Did I think that Crystal would lead us to him, to Emma?
I did.
Despite my disappointment, I appreciate what Peter has done.
I’m not sure that he can do much else, though. He’s already looked over all of Brandon’s finances. Crystal’s, too.
What more can he do?
“I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time,” I say softly, wondering what I’ll do now. I’ll never stop looking. I know that. But I don’t even know where to start.
