Page 85 of Old Money
It clicks: Jeremy. He’d told me he used scrambling services like this—the kind that doesn’t “star out” numbers. Then I remember another thing Jeremy told me: email only. No phones. He’d only contact me that way in “life-or-death situations.”
I open a new window on my laptop, logging into my Jeremy-only email account with shaky fingers. The message is there, time stamped just before midnight last night. The subject line is ominous, even for Jeremy:
Did you see?
The email itself is even more chilling. It’s just a link, and beneath it, three words:
This is bad.
I click the link, and then I’m looking at another local news site—not theHV Journal, but one from upstate: theNorth Country Register. I scan the page for something familiar, and find it in a brief paragraph, halfway down the homepage:
Patient Reported Missing from Black River Facility
Jefferson County police are seeking information on the whereabouts of a man reported missing yesterday, having failed to arrive for a scheduled intake at Fairview Treatment Center, in Black River, NY. Alexander Chapman, of Briar’s Green, NY, arrived at Watertown International Airport at 10:40 a.m. on July 3, where a Fairview staff member was waiting to escort him to the facility. Chapman, thirty-four, was seen collecting baggage shortly after deboarding, but his escort was unable to locate him in the arrival area. Fairview administrators reported Chapman missing twenty-four hours later, having failed to locate or contact him. When reached for comment, staff did not specify Chapman’s medical or physical condition, but noted that, “As with anyone in need of in-patient care, we are deeply concerned for his safety. We ask that anyone who comes into contact with him to please contact us or county authorities, for the sake of Mr. Chapman’s own well-being.”
My phone vibrates again, and Jamie stirs. He sits up carefully, a hand against his bruised ribs, blinking around the dim room.
“What’s up?” he says. “Is it morning?”
“Not quite.”
Jamie scrubs at his eyes, registering my expression.
“What, did they find him? Did they find the car?”
I tell him no, then hand him my laptop. I watch his face go still, eyes darting, as he reads the paragraph.
“Coffee?” He stands up slowly and shuffles to the back of the apartment.
I look down at my phone and see Jeremy’s final text—another three-word message:
Be careful. Please.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Jamie’s giant bachelor TV is tuned to a local news affiliate, the volume low. It’s nearly 8:00 a.m., and the news about Alex is spreading, albeit slowly. TheHV Journalpicked up the report, and there was a brief mention on the regional NPR station, among a list of other area-news items: coyote captured on college campus, historic lighthouse reopened after flood repairs, local man reported missing upstate.
Both of us are under-slept and jumpy. Jamie plugged Jessie’s thumb drive into his laptop to review Alex’s interview and search the other files for any mention of him.
“It’s weird, right?” I ask again. “You’d think there’d be more coverage on such a slow news day.”
“They only reported him missing yesterday.” Jamie shrugged. “Not much else to cover—as far astheyknow.”
My head throbs at the thought of it. I haven’t called the Fairview Center, or the Jefferson County police, to tell them about my meeting with Alex—not yet, anyway. Part of me wants to, immediately. Alex is vulnerable, and on the outs with some very powerful people. But those are the people who sent him to Fairview—who made the arrangements and paid the fees. For all I know, they’re up there now, making further arrangements with the county police. I do know they’ve done it before.
“No mention of the car either,” I say, looking back at the television.
Jamie snorts.
“No shit.” He rubs the side of his neck. “No one’s ‘seeking information’ on that car, ‘cause no one’s looking for it.”
I shut my laptop, reaching for my bag. “I’m going to run back to the Alcott. I’ll change and come back to take you to the rental-car place. Okay? Jamie?”
Jamie pauses, leaning closer to the laptop, his eyes fixed on something.
“Huh?” he answers in a distant voice. “Oh, the, uh, yeah.”
“Half an hour, okay?” I hitch my bag up on my shoulder, waving at him.“Okay?”
