It took Jeannette a good minute—about the same amount of time it took for Warren to start to punch in the number—to clue in to what he had in mind. When she did figure it out, she felt her stomach drop with a surge of nerves. He was trying to track them down so he could call them. The families of the missing girls. It wasn’t an entirely insane idea. Chances were high that the girls’ relatives had never stopped wondering what had happened to them. Even if they suspected the worst, the not knowing would be painful.
But will they be happy to hear from someone who only added more questions to the mix?
Jeannette thought maybe not. And she nearly pulled the phone from Warren’s hand so she could forcibly hang up. At least it would give them a chance to discuss it before moving forward with the plan. But it was too late. Warren was already clearing his throat and speaking into the handset.
“Hello?” he said. “Is this Mrs. Saxon? Elise Saxon’s mother?” He paused as the person on the other end answered him. “Yes.” Pause. “I’m awfully sorry to hear that.” Pause. “Yes, that would be great. Thank you.”
This time, the pause was so long that Jeannie started to get antsy. But she no sooner opened her mouth—barely managing to form the first syllable of Warren’s name—before he lifted his finger to his lips, then shook his head and spoke into the phone again.
“Ms. Saxon?” he greeted. “Thanks so much for taking my call. I’ll try not to keep you. I’m doing a bit of research on your sister’s case for an article for a local blog. I apologize for the lack of warning, and I understand that this isn’t the best—” He stopped and listened for a second, then gave his jaw a rub with his free hand. “No, not that kind of sensationalist crap.” Pause. “No, I hear you, and I have a personal investment in the matter, as well.”
A frown creased his forehead, and his mouth twitched. “No, no. Not that kind of investment. In all honesty, Ms. Saxon, I really just have two, simple questions.” Pause. “Thank you. The first thing I’m wondering is regarding the last time anyone saw Elise. Do you happen to know if there were any eyewitnesses who may have seen her with a suspicious man?”
He met Jeannette’s eyes as he listened. “Yes, I wish that were the case, too. But I appreciate the indulgence.” Pause. “Yes, definitely. The second thing might seem a little random. Bear with me anyway. Did Elise have a friend—an older one, maybe—who rode a motorcycle?” Pause. “I see. Well, I truly appreciate your time. It’s been helpful. And I’m very sorry about your mother.”
Warren clicked the phone off then, and Jeannette sent him an incredulous look as he immediately started to punch in another number. This time, she did reach out and stop him. Her palm closed over the back of his hand, forcing him not to be able to make the call.
“You’re really going to phone all of them?” she asked.
“Can you think of a better way to source out our guy’s name?” he replied.
“Not off the top of my head, but you didn’t give me much of a chance to come up with one, did you? And what you picked is insanely risky,” she said. “What if Elise’s sister had asked you your name? And honestly...now that I’m thinking of it... I don’t know why she didn’t. I personally wouldn’t have answered any of your questions without knowing who you were.”
Warren exhaled. “She was probably distracted by the fact that her mother passed away this week.”
Jeannette’s heart panged, but she made herself stay focused on her concerns. “That’s sad. Truly. But it also proves my point. A death in the family affects people in different ways. What if Elise’s sister had been angry? What if she’d felt like you were intruding, and she got suspicious and decided to call the police?”
“I had a story ready.”
“What kind of story?”
His lips turned up. “I would’ve told her that I’m John Smith from the Blue Collar Blog.”
She didn’t smile back. “I’m serious, Warren.”
His expression sobered right away, and he brought up his free hand and touched her face. “Do you trust me, Jeannie?”
“You know that I do.”
“Then believe me when I say that I wouldn’t put you at risk, Jeannie.”
Her heart softened even though she ordered it not to, and she sighed and leaned a little harder into his palm. “Okay. Fine. Let’s just say this whole thing isn’t as crazy as I think it is, and let’s also just say that you’re able to successfully get a hold of every single one. What’s going to happen when you call Stephanie’s family?”
The smallest cloud marked Warren’s eyes. “They won’t recognize my voice. I barely talked to them back then. The John Smith story—or something like it—should work just fine.”
Jeannette squeezed his hand. “That’s not what I meant. How will it make you feel? It’s one thing to talk to strangers’ relatives about this, but don’t you think it will be different with hers?”
He dropped his hand, and for a second, she thought he would argue with her. But he just shook his head, then responded in a gruff voice.
“I’m not going to say that I’ve been running from this for twenty-five years. That wouldn’t be accurate. I put down some roots, and—like you said—I created a decent life for myself. But I’ll admit that I’ve been avoiding anything and everything to do with Stephanie since the second I changed my name. It was selfish. Maybe cowardly. Either way, it’s true.”
“It’s not cowardly or selfish, Warren. It’s understandable.”
“Still. I knew it was unfinished business. I just thought it didn’t matter, because there wasn’t much that I could do about it.”
“You were a kid. You didn’t stand a chance going up against cops who believed you were guilty, let alone cops who were trying to make you seem guilty.”
“That’s true, too,” he said. “Being pursued as a suspect was scary as hell. I was happy to have a lawyer to hide behind. But I stopped being a kid a long time ago, Jeannie. I should’ve pursued it. I should’ve reached out to Stephanie’s parents—to someone—and gone after some answers.” Warren touched her cheek, this time in a quick, gentle caress. “I guess I just needed the right motivation. The right person to make me see that the life I’ve been living was still lacking something.”
He tipped his face down and brought his lips to Jeannette’s in an emotion-fused kiss. And now her heart wasn’t just soft; it was a fully melted puddle.
“I don’t want you to worry about what’s going to happen if—when—I get a hold of Stephanie’s parents,” he told her as he pulled away. “I just want you to know that I’m grateful that you’ve helped me get to a point where I can.”
“Okay,” she breathed. “Call them all. But at least put it on speaker so I can hear what’s going on.”
“You got it.” His thumb brushed her lower lip, and then he set to work on the phone once more.
Jeannette did notice that, despite his words, he put Stephanie’s family at the bottom of his attempts. But ultimately, it didn’t matter anyway. Because his next two attempts were a bust.
Cassie-Lynn Phelps’s family was nowhere to be found. None of the listings matched up with either of her parents’ names, and an online search for further contact info yielded nothing. No social media trail, no helpful news hints. Of course, fifteen years had passed, and that was plenty of time for people to move away. To move on, at least as best they could.
Glenna Montgomery’s parents were more easily located. But they hadn’t had the same number of years to distance themselves from their loss. Their daughter’s disappearance was still raw—still current—and it showed. Her mother started to cry the very second that Warren announced his reason for calling. Then her father took the phone and—in a furious, heartbreaking tirade full of colorful language—told Warren where he could take his questions and what he could do with them when he got there.
But really, Jeannette knew it was probably more surprising that the first call had worked out so well. Actually, it was remarkable. So as Warren punched in the final number—a listing for an A. P. Timmons just outside of Red Deer—she was tense with an expectation that they’d hear more of the same. And in all honesty, she was torn over whether or not that was what she’d prefer. Because as much as she was aware that they were in desperate need of a real clue, she was also sure that it would be more painful for Warren than he suspected.
Nervously, she flexed her hands as the line rang. Once. Twice. A third and fourth time. Then a fifth. Relief and disappointment mingled as Jeannette started to conclude that it was going to be a dead end. But then, midway through the sixth ring, the line clicked.
“Timmons residence,” said a crisp, female voice.
Warren cleared his throat. “Hi there. I’m hoping I have the right number. I’m looking for the parents of Stephanie Timmons.”
“This is her mother’s caregiver. Who may I say is calling?”
Jeannette’s stomach dropped. Warren met her eyes.
“My name is John Smith,” he said. “I work for a Calgary-based news blog, and my editor has asked me to write a story about Stephanie.”
“Does it have anything to do with the recent story about what they found out at that construction site?” asked the woman on the other end.
“It’s what initially piqued our interest,” Warren replied, sounding remarkably natural. “But we’re not looking for a reaction in that regard. We have a couple of questions about some things that may have happened when Stephanie first went missing.”
The statement earned a sigh. “All right, Mr. Smith. Under normal circumstances, I’d tell you to stuff it. Mrs. Timmons doesn’t need the aggravation. But truth be told, that story on the TV has her pretty worked up. Understandably, of course. But I actually think it might do her some good to talk to someone about things. Hang on for one second.”
There was the sound of shuffling, then the tap of feet. Next came a muted conversation and a hacking, painful cough. Finally, a greeting crackled through in a hoarse, pack-a-day voice.
“This is Gina Timmons.”
“Hello, Mrs. Timmons, this is—”
“I know who this is.”
Warren’s thumb tapped his thigh. “Oh. Your caregiver explained?”
Stephanie’s mother snorted. “Caregiver, my foot. She’s a palliative care nurse, whether she likes it or not. And I said I know who this is, not that someone told me who it is.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Warren Hull. Don’t try to tell me it’s not.”
Jeannette heard Warren’s sucked-in breath, and she saw his fingers loosen on the phone a heartbeat before it slipped from his grip. She stuck out her own hand just in time, catching it midfall. He shot a grateful look her way, but he didn’t answer the question right away. Instead, his eyes sank shut.
Warren took a steadying breath. He hadn’t been prepared for immediate recognition, and truthfully, he’d planned on using the cover story as a bit of a shield. A wall between himself and the direct link to his past. Having it suddenly toppled was an unpleasant feeling. An exposure.
“Are you there, young man?” snapped Stephanie’s mother.
He opened his eyes, latched onto Jeannie’s for some mental strength, and then he made himself answer. “Yes, Mrs. Timmons. I’m here.”
“Now tell me. Who is there? Warren Hull or John Smith?” The query was just shy of acerbic.
“This is Warren. I wasn’t sure you’d remember me at all.”
“You weren’t sure if I’d remember you, or you weren’t sure if I blamed you for my daughter’s disappearance?”
“Both,” Warren admitted.
Mrs. Timmons let out a noisy cough. “Did you do it?”
“What?”
“Did you take Stephanie? Harm her in any way? Do the things that the man on TV says you did?”
“No,” he said quickly. “God, no. I loved her as much as any teenage boy can love a teenage girl.”
“That’s what I always believed.” She coughed again, even harder this time. “The truth is, Warren, my thoughts of my daughter have always been punctuated by thoughts of you, too. I know she hated us, a little. More than a little, I guess. She wasn’t shy about telling us just how badly we’d failed her as parents. And we probably did. Emotional connection was never my strong suit, and her dad preferred booze to kids. But you were good for her, and I guess back then, I hoped that you’d help Stephanie get through the rough patches.” Yet another hacking wheeze clogged up the line for several seconds before she added, “Pardon me and my lung cancer. We’re not getting along too well nowadays.”
Warren’s throat scratched uncomfortably. “Mrs. Timmons, I’m so sorry that—”
“Don’t be sorry, young man. You didn’t make me sick. And more importantly, you didn’t hurt my daughter, either.”
“No. I didn’t. But I’d like to figure out who did.”
“So you’re trying to clear your name. The real one, that is.”
“Yes.”
“Then go ahead,” she said. “Ask me whatever questions ‘Mr. Smith’ has.”
He exchanged another look with Jeannie. “It’s just two things, really. The first is whether you remember if anyone gave out a description of a man Stephanie might’ve been seen with before she went missing?”
“Definitely not,” said Mrs. Timmons. “If I’d thought there was someone who’d seen what happened, I would’ve been screaming from the rooftops.”
Warren exhaled. “Then I’m guessing this next thing will be a no, too—because I’m sure I would’ve been aware—but I’ll ask anyway. Did Stephanie hang around with anyone who rode a motorcycle?”
“Well, yes, kiddo. Of course she did.”
The response was unexpected, and he genuinely thought he’d misheard. “Sorry. Did you say yes?”
Mrs. Timmons coughed for a moment. “Her boyfriend before you.”
“Devon?”
“No. The one after that. What was his name?”
Warren’s whole body was wound rubber band tight. “I genuinely don’t know, Mrs. Timmons. Stephanie only ever mentioned Devon.”
“Ah. Well. The one between you two was no good. Maybe that’s why. He went to your school, too. Or that’s what I think Stephanie told me. But he was definitely a few years older, and he definitely rode a big, hotshot bike.”
“But you don’t remember his name?”
“Could’ve been Bobby? Or Robby?” She hacked for a second. “Or hell. Maybe it was something completely different. Liam? Mike? I told the police at the time, though, and they said the guy had an alibi. Out for dinner with his very respectable, law-abiding brother. That part, I remember without question. The cop had this look on his stupid, fake-n-bake tanned face when he told me about it. So damned superior.”
“That would’ve been Detective Harper,” Warren said.
“Yes, that’s the one. I didn’t like him a bit.”
“I guess we have that in common.”
“Does any of this help you?” she asked.
“It gives me something,” he replied. “And that’s better than nothing.”
The room filled with coughs so sharp that Warren could practically taste the rusty hint of blood in his own mouth. The barking hacks carried on for an alarmingly long time, and finally, there was a shuffle, and the coughs became background noise. Then the crisp-voiced caregiver cut in.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Smith,” she said. “I think Mrs. Timmons has had as much of a discussion as she can right now. I’m going to offer her a sedative, and I’m very sure she’ll take it.”
“I understand,” Warren replied. “Please tell her that she was very helpful, and that I hope I’m able to get some answers, for both our sakes.”
“I’ll do that.”
The line clicked off the moment after the nurse made the statement, and Warren couldn’t stop himself from closing his eyes again. Even when Jeannie’s arm slid to his waist, he wasn’t quite ready to open them.
“You were right,” he said. “That hurt.”
She put her head on his shoulder. “I didn’t want to be right. I’m sorry.”
“I should’ve reached out to her a long time ago. I should’ve reached out to her back then.”
“Sixteen-year-old kids aren’t usually the reach-out type.”
“No, I guess not.” Warren shifted a little so that he could drape his arm over Jeannie and pull her in a little closer. Then he took a deep inhale of her scent—still lightly floral, tinged with rain and the barest hint of fresh sweat—and used it to calm himself. “I should’ve used a few of those minutes on the phone with her to ask how she’d been over the years.”
“I’m sure it matters more to her that you’re trying to find out what really happened to her daughter.”
“Yes, probably. I just wish she’d been able to give up something a little more. I don’t feel like we’re any further along than we were before.”
“Of course we are,” Jeannie said, pulling away and sitting up properly as she spoke. “Now we know for sure that Stephanie was associated with someone on a motorbike. We know that whoever he was, he might’ve gone to the same high school as you did, at some point, and we know that he has a brother in some kind of important position. That’s a lot, Warren. A lot more than we had a few minutes ago, anyway.”
A tiny bit of his tension eased. “Yeah. I guess we just need to figure out what to do with it.”
“Well, I think I know where to start.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” She grabbed the laptop and opened a new browser window. “What’s the name of the school you went to?”
“Mountainview Senior,” he said. “Why? You think it’ll be that easy?”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Her fingers flew across the keyboard.
“It’s Saturday. No one will be at the school.”
“Not at the school, no. But online...” She continued to type for a good minute, then finally turned the laptop his way. “And voilà. Meet John Smith, former Mountainview Senior student. Forty-four years old, graduated twenty-six years ago, new to social media, looking to connect with a specific, former classmate and just posted a request on the Mountainview Senior group page.”
Warren stared at the screen. “I’m impressed by the ingenuity, but who’s going to answer a guy with no real picture with a name they don’t recognize?”
As if in direct response—and contradiction—to his question, the computer pinged.
“Apparently...” said Jeannie, squinting at the screen. “Elroy Black is going to respond. Or did respond, I should say. He wrote you—errr... John, I mean—a private message that says:
Hey, man. Welcome to the modern age. Did we have Biology together?”
Warren’s mouth twitched. “Well... Did we?”
“Good question,” she replied, typing again and murmuring her written words aloud as she did.
“Nah, dude. Don’t think so. Science wasn’t my jam.”
A few seconds went by, and another message from Elroy popped up. This time, Warren read it aloud himself.
“Yeah, nothing in school was my jam, bro. But whatcha gonna do? You said you were looking for someone?”
Jeannie typed back, still speaking as she did.
“Don’t remember his name. Rode a motorcycle.”
This time, they read Elroy’s message in silence.
Sorry, man. The only biker guy I remember is that one who came with the construction crew.
The comment triggered something in Warren’s mind, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on exactly what it was. He frowned as Jeannie sent back a response.
The construction crew? she wrote.
Elroy replied:
You don’t remember? C’mon, you have to! They were putting in that portable and the sewer pipe burst. Smelled the you-know-what for weeks after.
“I guess John Smith wouldn’t forget that,” Warren said.
“Probably not,” Jeannie replied, her fingers tapping away. “The stench would definitely have found its way into his fictional nose.”
She typed:
I think I purposely blocked it out. But thanks for bringing back the bad memories. Haha. Must be why I thought the biker was a student, too.
Elroy replied:
No doubt. That guy was a creep, though. Said something weird to Jack Salmon’s younger sister, and Jack...being... Jack made a complaint. Do you remember him? He was such a snitch, even for minor stuff. But anyway, I think it turned out that the creep’s dad was some huge bigwig property developer or something, and made some massive city donations, so the guy was untouchable. Why the hell are you looking for him now?
Jeannie’s eyes came up to Warren’s face. “Why am I looking for him?”
“Tell him you work in construction and you think he applied for a job at your company,” he replied, his mind churning to the point of distraction. “Then tell him you have to go.”
“Got it.”
Warren waited impatiently while she sent the message and signed off. His brain had finally managed to jam the puzzle piece into the correct place.