Page 43 of Milk & Cookie

The fucking bliss continues.

“I’ll make sure I do, Angel. I’ll wrap up my last case tomorrow, and I’ll come home to you as soon as I can.”

I stare at the information in front of me.

The multiple hospital records for Gail Beckett-Wallace.

The police reports of domestic abuse and protection orders made out to prevent Adam Wallace from approaching Gail and Frederica.

Fred’s hospital records, which are sparser than feared — thank goodness — but the one admission for a broken arm when she was nine months old is beyond concerning, considering the type of twist-fracture seen in the X-ray doesn’t match the bullshit mechanism-of-injury story written in the notes about her falling on it directly.

And the names irk me. Adam Wheeler is written as her father.

Same as it’s written on her birth certificate, but different from the Adam Wallace on Gail’s marriage certificate. Different age, different social, different everything.

Two different Adams. Two different timelines.

But both of them hurt the women in my new family.

And neither seem to exist anymore, though I only have proof one of them is dead.

Wheeler allegedly died falling in front of a moving train while drunk, and the report has Gail with him at the time. The words also intoxicated and inconsolable suggest she didn’t push him, but I have my suspicions, after seeing her defensive behavior when I got too close to her girl.

I text my guy at Homeland, to hurry him up on his search for Adam Wallace being registered on any overseas travel documentation, and then roll my chair back to the map and timelines I have for the places I have proof Gail and Fred resided at. The addresses cross half the country, spanning all twenty-four years of Fred’s life, and they lead away from Gail’s hometown — like she left home and never looked back. Ironic, considering one of her yearbooks has her sweet young face pinned as homecoming queen.

Adam Wheeler was a few years older, and his yearbooks have him pegged as a mid-level jock.

Adam Wallace was written up as an A-level student. Captain of the debate team, despite a speech impediment. Can’t have been too good at it, considering he later resorted to winning arguments with his fists. Did she overcorrect from abusive Jock to total dork, thinking she’d be safer, only to have that asshole break her jaw?

My hunt continues. “Where did you go, Wallace?”

The last traceable whereabouts I have for him are a few months after Gail’s online medical records report her jaw surgery in Oregon. I’ve marked that spot in red on my map, and the blue trail of Gail’s adventures turns north again about then. North-east…

My phone rings. The Office flashes on the screen, and I hit the speaker icon. “Yeah.”

“Are you done with?—”

“I sent through the analysis and the smoking gun of a document an hour ago,” I say, double-checking my sent emails. “Check your spam if you can’t find it; it’s definitely sent. It was the uncle. Already alerted the parents and set a hunter on his ass, as per their wishes. Should be dealt with by week’s end.”

Clint’s chair screeches, so I know he’s leaning back when he gives an impressed whistle. “Good work, Vince. Are you sure I can’t talk you into?—”

“Nope. I’m out, Clint. Hundred percent out, so save your flattery. I can’t look at this stuff anymore without having nightmares. I’m going where the dreams are all rainbows and unicorns and tigers and shit. I’m gonna have a bunch of babies, and I ain’t ever leaving them. I’m not giving some asshole a chance to come along and do nasty things to them. They’re going to grow up happy and innocent — the way it should be. Great working with you. The end. Have a nice life.” I hang up and turn back to the mystery of the missing Adam.

That asshole is definitely already dead somewhere, which saves me a job. The only questions in my mind are how and where.

“Can’t use a train twice, Gail. That’d scream pattern. You went with something else. Something safer. More calculated. Poison?” I nod. “A strong one. Can’t have him recovering and coming after you. Living in fear of a man is a terrible thing — worse than running from the law. You made the right choice, Gail.”

I run through assorted poisons in my mind. “Something strong. Something natural. Something you could get your hands on…”

I isolate her known residences surrounding the most likely time period Adam went missing, and then I pull up and transpose the climate map. “Something that grows well in cooler climates.” I layer over a map with soil-moisture levels. “Cool and damp. Hemlocks? Western Water-hemlock would be mighty available to transient hippies in Oregon, who are heading toward the north and east… into Washington?”

I stare at the map. At the last known location for both Gail and Adam Wallace in Oregon and the first known location of Gail after that, in Washington. Right in the middle, if I drew a line between the two, is Walla Walla.

I chuckle softly. “Oh, the last laugh is all yours, Gail. Walla Walla? It’s the perfect place to bury an abusive asshole with a stutter, named Wallace.”

I lean back in my chair with a grin and call Freddie.

“Hey, big guy.” Her voice sounds like sunshine, and I close my eyes, imagining her face.

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