by A J Rivers
“What was it?” he asks.
I pick up my phone where I left it on the corner of the counter and pull up the notepad where I wrote down the email address. I hold it out to him and shake my head, shrugging.
“I have no idea what this says. I don’t recognize it at all,” I say.
“They’re going to send information about you to some stranger’s email address?” Sam asks, the worry building up in his voice again.
“No. I gave her the burner address I use when I don’t want messages to be traced back to me. I am going to give Eric this address and see if he can track it down.”
I put the pot on the stove and crank the burner up to high heat, then go to the pantry for a canister of pasta. Setting it aside, I take out another pot to start some sauce. Which I should have done an hour before starting the pasta. I’m going about this in totally the wrong order, but I can’t seem to make everything line up. The whole situation has thrown me off more than I want to admit.
“It’s probably just some guy who saw you on the news and wants to know more about you,” Sam says.
It’s in a tone I think is supposed to be reassuring, but I scoff.
“Just what I need. Someone else trying to track me down.”
“Exactly. This isn’t new to you. But you seem really worked up about it. Why do I feel as if this is about more than some creeper trying to get random bits of information about you?”
“Because it’s not about that,” I say. “I mean, yes, it’s creepy. I don’t particularly relish the idea of someone being able to manipulate the University into thinking she’s me. I’m glad whatever number she gave went out of service, so the University had to call the contact information they have on record and I was able to intercept the email they’re going to send. But that’s all essentially things that have happened before. It’s the same concept, just another version.”
“But...” he leads.
“But it brings up the memories about college I haven’t thought about in a long time and didn’t necessarily want to think about anymore.”
“About what?” he asks.
I hesitate. This isn’t something I’ve ever talked to him about. I haven’t talked to anybody about it in thirteen years. Now I’m not entirely sure what to tell him.
“There’s no connection. I don’t even know why I thought of it. Only that this wouldn’t be the first time something strange happened at that university.”
I put butter and olive oil in the pan to start warming as I chop up onions and carrots, then put them in to cook.
“Yeah,” Sam says. “You’re going to need to give me more than that. The whole mysterious, heady cliffhanger thing isn’t going to work for me.”
“Really, Sam,” I insist. “It’s just bad memories.”
“Then tell me about them,” he says.
I stir the vegetables, then turn to face him.
“Do you remember Julia Meyer?”
Chapter Twenty-One
“The name sounds familiar,” he says.
“She was my friend in college. I met her at the very beginning of freshman year, and we kept in touch a little bit over the second semester, then we ended up reconnecting during my sophomore year. You only met her once, I think. Really pretty girl. A couple of years older than me. Tall,” I say. I realize it’s not the most exacting of descriptions and pour pasta into the now-boiling water. “Anyway, we had started to get pretty close, and then she suddenly left.”
“That’s right,” Sam says. “That’s the girl who left school without telling anybody.”
“Exactly,” I say. “She didn’t tell anybody she was planning on leaving, and I never heard from her again. As I said, just bad memories. That was kind of a rough time in my life, if you remember. Adding her disappearing was just a lot.”
“She didn’t disappear, Emma. She just left school. People do that.”
I force a smile. “You’re right.” I look at the pans, then turn the burners off. “You know what? I don’t feel like pasta. Let’s go to Pearl’s for some biscuits and gravy.”
He agrees wholeheartedly and we head out. We get to our favorite little diner and slide into our booth, reaching across the table to hold hands the way we always do. I let my shoulders relax and all the other thoughts drain out of my head. Right now, all I want to think about is Sam and Thanksgiving and Christmas. And drowning away all thoughts of wrong numbers, misdirected emails, and lingering last smiles in a plate of gravy.
The next morning, I get up early to start my last day of preparation before everybody gets here. Sam peeks in on me while I’m taking a shower and tells me he has to leave early. Apparently, there’s been a call about a series of minor vandalism to cars around town. Nothing too serious. Probably just a bunch of kids without enough to do while they’re out of school and driven to bouts of group hysteria by being around their extended families who have already shown up for the holiday season.
So much for a completely uneventful Thanksgiving week. But at least I can be thankful that it’s nothing more than some keyed paint and glass markers scribbled over windshields and windows.
After my shower, I head to the kitchen for coffee. It’s already brewed and there’s a little note from Sam propped up against my favorite mug. A little sketch of cartoon versions of us have long, stretched out lips meeting together in a kiss over what I think is a pile of potatoes.
I’m going to be hearing about those potatoes for the rest of my life.
I’m considering the plausibility of having one of them preserved and potentially bronzed as a Christmas gift when I hear shuffling out on the front porch. I file the idea away in the back of my mind. It seems like a good way to bring some lightness to the decidedly unpleasant origin story.
Taking my coffee with me, I go to the door and peer out. When I see the mail carrier standing there, I open the door and smile at her.
“Good morning,” I say. “You’re out and about early today.”
Checking her expression, I gauge her reaction to me, trying to decide if she’s heard the rumblings about Gabriel, and if she has, where she falls. Her face is just as animated and friendly as always, even with the little bit of attitude I detect, so I think I’m in the clear with her.
“Holiday shopping is already in full swing and everybody and their brother are shopping online these days. We’re having to add in extra rounds just to make sure all the regular mail is delivered along with the packages,” Henrietta says with a hint of sass.
“Well, I appreciate everything you’re out here doing,” I say. “And I extra appreciate you in advance for when it’s time for you to deliver everything I order online this year.”
“You better not,” she says. “I’m relying on you to celebrate the blessed holiday season the way the good lord intended. By shopping in a crowded mall filled with plastic reindeer and Santa in a fat suit.”
I laugh. “Alright. You’ve convinced me.”
“Oh,” she says, “here’s your mail. Looks as if someone is already into the Christmas spirit.”
I notice a red envelope right on top of the stack with my name and address printed in metallic gold on a label adorned with holly in the corners.
“Wow,” I note. “That’s definitely getting a jump on things. Can I make you a cup of coffee before you go?”
“No. I have a tumbler in the truck. But thank you,” she says.
“The offer stands. If you need some caffeine or a snack, or just want to escape the package onslaught, I will happily harbor you,” I tell her.
She laughs the rich laugh that always makes me feel as if she is one of those rare genuinely, purely happy people in this world. Waving, she heads back to her truck and I duck inside away from the chill of the morning. I swallow down the rest of my coffee and go for another cup while I examine the red envelope. It doesn’t have a return address, but that doesn’t seem as unusual for a holiday card.
I don’t know if it’s because they don’t want to seem as if they are hi
nting for a card in return or if they just don’t want to ruin the aesthetics of the envelope, but I’ve noticed some people tend to forego return labels on their holiday cards. The cute little bell sticker on the back adds some festive glitter to the whole thing.
I manage to restrain my curiosity long enough to go through the rest of the stack of mail. A couple of bills get tossed to one side, and a postcard from Paul and Janet ends up between my refrigerator door and a magnet of a pineapple wearing sunglasses Bellamy brought back from vacation last spring.
The couple from across the street has been fulfilling their life dream of traveling the country together to celebrate their anniversary. They’ve been sending Sam and me postcards along the way. They don’t know it, but he and I have been secretly practicing our board game skills so we can blow them out of the water during our first game night when they come back.
I’m still working on Clue.
Bringing my fresh cup of coffee with me, I take the card into the living room and curl up in the corner of the couch to open it. The card is an elaborate depiction of a Victorian-style Santa Claus accented with more of the glitter like the sticker on the envelope. Inside is an inscription in handwriting I don’t recognize.
It’s definitely not natural handwriting. It looks like someone painstakingly tried to create a script style that fit with the image on the card. The effect is lovely, if somewhat off-putting.
“Make your list. Check it twice. Have to find out who’s naughty, not nice.”
That is definitely off-putting. I read it again to make sure I actually read the words correctly. Those are most certainly not the words to that song. Good effort, though. Which leads me to believe that even though there’s no signature, I know who sent the card.
I pick up my phone and make a video call. As usual, one of Xavier’s eyeballs shows up on the screen first. His phone is one of the things that rarely fails to illustrate how disconnected from the world Xavier still is after his years spent in prison.
He’s a brilliant man known for concocting and bringing to life complex and incredible inventions. His house is overflowing with gadgets, traps, and features he designed. Lights that change brightness and color based on the volume and emotion in his voice. Doors equipped with systems that interact with computer chips on a keyring, so the door will pop back open if he tries to close it from the outside with the keys still inside.
And yet he is baffled by answering a video call.
But they are how he prefers to communicate. He doesn’t like to talk on the phone. He says it disorients him and he’s better at understanding people when he can see their faces. So this is what we do.
“Xavier?”
“Emma? Can you see me?”
“I can see your eye. Pull the phone back.”
His features gradually come into view. “How’s this?”
“Much better.”
“Good.” He smiles. “How are you?”
“I just wanted to thank you for the Christmas card. It’s really beautiful. If you are sending versions to anyone else, though, you might want to change up the inscription. You got the words to the song wrong and it’s a little creepy. But I love the Santa,” I say.
Xavier looks at me strangely. “What card?”
“The card you sent me.” I pick up the card and hold it up in front of the phone so he can see it. “This one.”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t send that.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“What do you mean you didn’t send it?” I frown, completely surprised by his response. “Of course you did.”
“I mean, I think I would remember filling out a Christmas card and sending it to you. But I suppose it’s possible that I don’t,” he says.
I close my eyes and squeeze the bridge of my nose between my thumb and finger.
“Xavier, I need you to think really carefully. Did you send me this Christmas card?”
“No,” he says without hesitation.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Give the holidays their own time, Emma. Don’t rush the long winter’s nap when we haven’t even celebrated the harvest,” he says.
“Does that mean you don’t send Christmas cards before Thanksgiving?” I ask.
“No, I don’t,” he says. “I also don’t sing whole Christmas carols. Or watch Christmas episodes of TV shows. I won’t eat candy canes or gingerbread men or anything shaped like a tree. No eggnog or cranberry ginger ale. No Christmas sweaters, pajamas, or socks. None of that before Thanksgiving.”
“Why not?” I ask.
There’s a brief pause. “Because it’s not Christmas season yet.”
“When does Christmas season start?” I ask.
“As soon as all the Thanksgiving food has been consumed. Unless there is a bridge dessert. That can be consumed during the transition period,” he says.
“What is a bridge dessert?” Dean asks from somewhere off the screen.
“A dessert that would be seasonally appropriate to consume for either Thanksgiving or Christmas due to shared flavor palettes or cultural significance. Pumpkin pie, for example. A traditional element of the Thanksgiving table despite the fact that pilgrims would not have used pumpkins and had no ingredients to make a crust or a custard-based pie, it then bridges over to Christmas as in, ‘later we’ll have some pumpkin pie and we’ll do some caroling’,” he says.
“That was a Christmas carol,” I point out. “I thought you didn’t do that.”
“Technically, that was a Christmas song, not a carol. But it wasn’t in its entirety. Sampling small portions is acceptable. As is eating banana pudding for both Thanksgiving and Christmas, as it is wildly illogical for both. Chocolate pudding with candy cane striped whipped cream, however… Christmas only.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want to have any wildly illogical foods at the holidays,” I smile. “You seriously didn’t send this?”
“Emma…” Dean says, leaning into the frame and giving me the lifted eyebrows that say stop and think about proceeding with this line of conversation.
“Emma, I’m coming to your house tomorrow. Why would I send you a Christmas card? You know how I feel about the current state of the United States postal system and its delivery methods.”
I nod. “I do.” I let out a sigh. “That’s just strange. Alright. Well, I’m going to go keep getting things ready. I look forward to seeing you guys tomorrow.”
They both wave. “See you tomorrow.”
There’s a beep as Xavier hits one of the buttons on the phone. I’m not sure which. Then there’s a brief moment of seeing his kitchen sideways as he sets the phone down without ending the call. It slips onto its back and I’m looking at the ceiling. Then it’s a flash of a nostril and the screen goes black.
Shaking my head, I set the phone aside and look at the card again. I can’t think of anyone else who would have sent the card. Xavier is the only one I can see managing to make a Christmas song that foreboding and implementing the idea of thematic handwriting in the same card.
But I’m not unfamiliar with his holiday and special occasion restrictions, and in retrospect they make more sense than his being responsible for the card.
As I’m staring out the front window sipping the last of my coffee to fuel me up for the day, I suddenly realize I never checked the email inbox to see if I got the message from Nancy Fulbright. That inbox is not one I have linked to my phone. That’s a purposeful choice, after the chaos and confusion of my phone being hacked and manipulated in a campaign of psychological torment against me a few years ago.
Since then, I’ve been extremely careful about what I do on my phone and what I relegate only to my computer. Making my way into my office, I wake my computer up and go through the process of checking that inbox.
The emails cluttering up the first page of results don’t follow any sort of theme or logical progression, but I’m not worried about any but the one on top. Sent just shortly after I finished the call with the administrat
ion office at the University, the email appears to have several attachments.
Opening it up, I read the short message from Nancy. It’s essentially the same as she said to me over the phone, with another promise to find any other information I might need. It has me feeling that she just wants me to get in contact with them again.
Which, by my experience, means they are considering that there are seminars or events and are going to try to get me to come speak. With the exception of the year of classes I promised to teach at the Sherwood Community Center, I’ve done my best to avoid any type of teaching situation throughout my career.
It’s not that I don’t think I’m an authority on what I do. I got exemplary grades in the academy and obviously have a proven track record. I’m just not the teaching type. It’s hard to be the one to stand in front of people aspiring to careers in the FBI and tell them how to be good agents when I’ve been just shy of rogue at so many points in my own.
And I would probably end up saying something ridiculous or offensive and ruin the whole learning experience.
Confident the email is really from the University and safe, I open up the first attachment. It’s my class schedule from my freshman year. Nostalgia settles over me as I look through the classes and remember the professors. The art classes stand out to me. That was the last year my schedule was heavily filled with the classes I thought were going to shape my future in art.
Sam likes to joke that I got ready for college by packing paintbrushes and I left packing a gun. The quip misses a couple of steps, but the general sentiment is there. Art school was always my dream. I envisioned a career spent traveling the world from gallery to gallery, immersed in different mediums, and crafting statements on society with my creations.
Then my father disappeared. One day he was there and the next he wasn’t. Overnight, the deeds to two houses, along with various bank accounts, shifted over into my name, and his will was left at his place. That was when my focus started to shift. Art classes gave way to psychology and criminal justice. Graduate school for a Master of Fine Arts degree became the FBI Academy.
