Chapter Twenty-Three

Forty-five minutes tick by. And I still can’t decide what to do with Asher’s parting words. What does he think might be able to be undone? And how can he not know whether or not he broke into my room? I mull it over for way too long before I finally concede that all I can do is push forward with the plan to seek out Jennika’s roommate, Charlotte Clarke.

I shower and put on the pantsuit I use for my day-to-day work.

I confirm via text that I will, in fact, join Gabe for dinner.

I make my way to the expansive property that houses Whimsy U and all its accoutrements.

And at last I find myself staring up at the campus map, wondering why I’m expecting a neon flashing sign to tell me which of the five residences—two coed, one all-male, and two all-female—is the one where Jennika disappeared from. Obviously, I’m going to need to find a more effective way of seeking out the right building.

You could’ve asked Asher for it. He must have it if he was tutoring her. Then you could’ve called ahead and taken out the guesswork.

It’s true. I could have. But I prefer the element of surprise. And I don’t want to take the chance that Jennika’s roommate is going to turn me away, either.

“Door to door it is,” I say.

My eyes hover on the map for one more second before I turn to go. But my move doesn’t get me very far. I slam straight into a young brunette woman, knocking a book out of her hands. And as I issue an apology and bend down to grab the hardback text—criminology, by the looks of it—I decide that I might as well ask.

“Hey,” I say as I hand over the book. “This is probably a ridiculous question, but do you happen to know a woman named Charlotte Clarke?”

Mentally, I cross my fingers that it’s not quite as a far-fetched a query as I’ve just suggested. Whimsy U is small as far as post secondary institutions go. And Jennika’s disappearance might’ve created at least a short-term buzz that her roommate could’ve gained a bit of notoriety. And sure enough, a hint of poorly veiled recognition passes through the brunette’s eyes.

“Why?” she asks suspiciously. “Are you a reporter?”

It’s not the response I’m expecting, and my surprise is genuine. “No. Why would a reporter be looking for Charlotte?”

“I don’t know,” the young woman replies, her tone managing to be guarded, defensive, and challenging, all at the same time. “You tell me. There was a guy here last week asking for her. He said he was from some newspaper.”

My skin prickles, but I use the unexpected revelation to further connect with the Whimsy U student. “Well…that’s weird. I wonder what he wanted?”

“Probably something to do with Charlotte’s roommate.”

“Right. I heard that she took off or something, didn’t she?” I stick out my hand. “Sorry. I’m Trinity. I’m a friend of Charlotte Clarke’s mother.”

The lie comes out smoothly. Not because it’s natural or because I’m comfortable with mistruth, but because I’ve trained my brain to recognize that sometimes deception is an important part of a greater good. And if I’m being honest, sometimes people react unpredictably when they hear the word “detective.”

The woman adjusts her book and takes my proffered palm. “I’m Mindy.”

“Criminology major?” I ask.

“First year social sciences,” she says with a headshake. “Not sold on a major yet.”

I smile. “I get it. I did my degree here, too. I took a little of everything before deciding what I wanted to do. Covered criminology, chemistry, women’s studies, and math. Oh. And first year German, for some reason. Which is probably why I’m completely lost at the moment.”

Tentatively, Mindy smiles back. “Yeah, it’s a bit overwhelming sometimes.”

“I’ll go ahead and pretend that ‘a bit’ is completely accurate at the moment.”

“I swear you’re not alone.”

I infuse a heavy amount of dubiousness into my response. “Uh huh.”

Now she laughs. “Okay, look. I don’t know Charlotte personally. But a girl in my psych class—the one who told me about the newspaper guy, actually—is in the same building as her. I’m pretty sure it’s residence number two.”

I stow my trickle of excitement at garnering the info. “So weird that a reporter was looking for her. I wonder if he ever got to talk to her?”

Mindy shrugs. “Who knows? The girl in my class never said.”

I wish that I could slap a few more questions her way. Did the woman mention what newspaper it was? Could she guess the guy’s approximate age? Any unique characteristics? And was there anything presented to prove that he was actually a reporter of some kind? But I don’t have a good enough excuse to pose any of them. And I’ve created a three-minute rapport that I don’t want to lose by starting an interrogation. The last thing I need is for Mindy the friendly social sciences student to call campus security.

“Thanks for the help,” I say, smiling again.

Mindy tips me a nod. “Yeah, no problem. Good luck finding Charlotte!”

I give her a wave, then turn and head for the residences. I frown as I walk, my mind hanging on the idea that a reporter came here looking for Charlotte Clarke.

An alleged reporter, I tell myself.

Because I know just how common that cover story is. I use it myself. And so do a lot of people with less-than-good intentions. After all, it’s a damn fine reason to ask someone a whole lot of questions.

Who was this guy? Did his thoughts line up with Asher’s, or was he just nosing around for a story? Or was it something else entirely? Something unrelated to Jennika at all?

When I reach my destination, I tuck away the thoughts and switch to observation mode. The building itself is unremarkable. It’s a four-floor apartment, gray in color. There’s one large entrance at the front, and though I can’t see it from where I stand, I assume that there are also secondary exits on the other three sides. The surrounding landscape is tidy, and a communal courtyard peeks out from one corner. Although it’s easy enough to stand where I am and look over the area, there isn’t anywhere that would make a good place to watch without being viewed from one of the apartments. Especially considering that each unit has its own enclosed balcony.

I squint at the glass fronts, trying to picture the inside. Back in my Whimsy U days, I hadn’t stayed in the dorms myself, and after what happened to Savannah, I had no desire to spend much time near them at all. But I had been inside at least a couple of times. From what I remember, the layout is pretty uncomplicated. There’s a total of sixteen bedrooms on each floor. Those are divided up into units, each of which has four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a shared kitchen, and a modestly sized study space. On top of that, all of the floors have a larger communal area with couches and a TV. I can’t imagine that any of that has changed much, despite the passage of time. It will all still be functional.

Considering whether or not there’s a simple means of figuring out which floor and unit is Charlotte’s, I move to the front door. I spy a numbered buzzer, but there aren’t any names beside the buttons. Not that the anonymity is surprising. It’s just an inconvenient impediment for my current goal. As is the fact that when I give the door a tug, I find it locked.

That’s a good thing, I tell myself. It means that it would’ve been challenging for someone to get in and interfere with Jennika in some way.

But a moment later, I have to retract the thought. Because a student comes out of the building, and instead of closing the door behind her, she holds it open for me. I bite back an urge to tell her how dangerous that is, and instead thank her and step inside. And right away, I see that across the lobby, there’s a directory plastered to a corkboard.

“This is far too easy,” I murmur, moving toward it.

A quick look reveals that Charlotte and Jennika are listed as being on the second floor in unit four. And in under two minutes I’ve made my way up the stairs, passed through the communal living area, smiled at a girl who’s sitting in an oversize armchair with her nose in a novel, and am standing in front of the door that’s marked with the Roman numeral IV. And it’s ajar.

Far, far too easy.

I tap my knuckles against the door, and it swings the rest of the way open, revealing the study space. It looks exactly as I remember it. Minus the rock band posters that I recall from my youth, that is. It also appears to be empty.

“Hello?” I call.

I’m almost surprised when I get a reply.

“Hang on!” says a voice from behind one of the other doors. “You’re super early. I’ll be out there with the money in a second!”

I count to twenty-seven as I wait. I try not to think of the havoc I could wreak in the small window of time that it takes a pretty redhead—dressed in a fluffy robe and with damp hair—to step into the room. She has a twenty-dollar bill in her hands, and she’s smiling. But as she eyes me up, her smile falters a little.

“Where’s the pizza?” she asks, taking the tiniest step back.

A safety lecture brews in my head. Both from the standpoint of a woman, and from the standpoint of a police officer. But I stow the words and adopt a congenial tone.

“I wish I had a pizza,” I tell her. “But I’m actually a friend of Asher Phillip’s, and I’m just looking to speak to Jennika’s roommate.”

“Why?” Her suspicion is undisguised.

“Are you Charlotte Clarke?”

Her defensiveness doesn’t fade, but to her credit, she doesn’t appear scared. “Why should I even answer that?”

I lift my hands up in a deferential gesture. “You probably shouldn’t. But all the same…I’m asking.”

She gives me a head-to-toe look. “Are you going to tell me that you’re a reporter, too?”

“No,” I reply, not bothering to feign ignorance. “It seems like someone else has already used up that angle.”

Charlotte—I’m 100 percent certain that it is her—relaxes a miniscule amount. “And you know Professor Phillip?”

“I used to be a student of his.”

“How do I know that’s true?”

“I guess you don’t.”

She exhales a sigh. “When I asked that so-called reporter for proof, he pretty much ran away. I mean, who does that? If you’re going to pretend to be something, then at least make the effort and bring a fake I.D. or something, right?”

“No point in half-assing it,” I agree dryly. “I’m Trinity, by the way.”

She stares at me for another moment, then snaps her fingers. “Holy shit. You’re the cop.”

I’m surprised by her words, but I keep my response noncommittal. “The cop?”

“Professor Phillip’s friend who moved to Vancouver. He’s mentioned you a few times during our tutoring sessions.”

“He has?”

“Yes. Assuming you have I.D., that is.”

I’m perfectly happy to dig out my wallet and show her my driver’s license. She studies it for a second, then brings her gaze back to my face.

“Huh,” she says. “I knew you were his student, but I always assumed you’d be older.”

“Oh, I’m older. I just buy expensive skin cream,” I joke.

She doesn’t smile. “Look. No offense, but why are you interested in where Jennika is? No one else seems to care. And the cops didn’t listen to anything I told them.”

“Partly because I’m selfish,” I admit. “Asher is my friend. What he thinks matters to me, and this is really bothering him, and ipso facto, it concerns me. But also, if something…more…happened to your roommate, then I want to do something about that for real. It matters to me personally, too.”

She studies me a little longer before nodding. “I believe you. But I’m not sure what more I can say. When I told Professor Phillip about what happened, I was feeling pretty emotional. I honestly didn’t even think he was listening. He just happened to call not long after it happened, and…” Charlotte’s voice quavers as she trails off, and she clears her throat. “I guess I can just tell you what I told the cops who came by to take my statement. And that’s that Jennika wouldn’t just leave. She’s predictable to the point of pathological. She ate the same breakfast every day that I lived with her. Every. Day. For an entire six months. Who does that? And I know she was scheduled to get a haircut the day before I got back, because she told me about it ninety million times. Plus, that note? Please. She didn’t leave that.”

“How do you know? It wasn’t in her handwriting?”

“No. I have no idea what her handwriting looks like. Why would I? Because who leaves a note? Jennika would’ve texted. She literally texted me ten times a day.”

I don’t argue, but I do ask, “Did she text you during the time that you were away?”

“Right up until two days before I came home,” Charlotte confirms.

“Did you tell the police that?”

“Yeah. And they told me that Jennika canceled her cell phone plan, so there wasn’t much they could do about it.”

My fingers tap my thigh. I wish that I’d been in on the initial conversation. And that I currently had access to the files and notes that went along with it. I want to know why the local PD was so quick to dismiss the case. And I don’t want it to be about numbers or the town’s reputation. I’d like to see solid evidence for the lack of investigation. The kind that would make me turn away from entertaining the possibility that something sinister had happened.

“Can you think of anything else?” I ask. “Any reason why your roommate would just leave? A family issue? Too much pressure with school?”

Charlotte shakes her head. “Jennika had no family. I overheard one of the cops say that there wasn’t even a next of kin to contact. She was here on a scholarship, and she was stupid serious about good grades. I couldn’t even get her to come with me for a beer on my birthday.”

“But if her grades were so important to her, then why would she walk away from them?”

“She didn’t, apparently. She withdrew from Whimsy U. She closed her bank account. She canceled three online subscription services. And she fully paid off her residency fees for the rest of the year.”

And there it is, I think. The reason the Whimsy police dismissed the case.

I fight a sigh. Of course one exists.

“I know,” says Charlotte, reading my expression. “It all sounds totally legit. But it’s just…not. And there was one other thing, too.”

“What’s that?” I reply.

“Hang on.”

She hops up and disappears into one of the bedrooms. She’s only gone for a couple of seconds, and when she reappears, she’s got a tablet in her hands. Her fingers fly over the screen for a moment. Then she holds out the electronic device, and I take it, unsure what to expect. But whatever might be crossing my mind, it’s not an online dating profile. Jennika’s onscreen name is Mystery-Girl. Her sweet smile is showcased in a thumbnail on the website, and a little blurb beside it gives a succinct description of her likes and dislikes, her hopes for a lasting relationship, and her dream of becoming a forensic scientist. I stare down at it, my mind twinging for some reason that I can’t pinpoint.

“She asked me to help her with it. And I was seriously surprised. But I did help her, so I have the password,” Charlotte explains as she sits on the desk again. “That’s not the weird part, though. What’s weird is that Jennika met someone, and she was talking to him on the same day that she sent me that last text.”

My eyes drop to the screen again. There’s a little icon that looks like an envelope, but it’s marked with a note that indicates that there are zero messages.

“I know,” Charlotte says again. “But I swear on my favorite uncle’s grave that when I looked at it on the day I got back from my trip, there were messages there. From him, and to him.”

“I’m guessing that he had a username of some kind?”

“Yeah. It’s a dumb one. ‘Smarty-Pants.’ But I already checked using my account, and he doesn’t exist now.”

Of course not. I make a mental note, anyway, to have a look as soon as I get a chance.

“Would you feel comfortable giving me Jennika’s username and password?” I ask.

Charlotte doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, definitely. Let me write it down for you.”

“Do you mind if I ask what you personally think happened?” I say as she finds a piece of paper and scrawls the info on it.

“That someone deleted them,” she tells me, handing over the note. “Of course, the cops said I probably just mixed up the dates, which I honestly don’t buy. Except there’s no way to prove it now that the messages are gone. And why are they gone? Like, completely?”

“Did you happen to read any of them?” I ask.

She makes a face. “No. I’m not like that. But now I kinda wish that I was.”

“So, then…” I muse aloud. “Let’s assume you’re right. The messages were deleted after you got back from your trip. Does anyone else have access to them?”

“I dunno. Maybe whoever sent them can delete the whole thread, too? It would make sense. Because if someone had access to her side of it, and they wanted to cover it up, then why wouldn’t they just delete the whole profile?”

“Fair point.”

“I thought about it a lot,” she says. “And the other thing that bugs me is that if the police believe that Jennika erased her life, then why don’t they think it’s weird that she kept her stupid online dating profile? I told them that they should have some tech guys dig up the info. Or that they should make the owners of the website do it. But apparently they don’t like to be told how to do their job.” She pauses. “Sorry.”

“No,” I agree. “You’re right. We do tend to be a bit defensive on that front.”

For a moment, I mull over everything she’s just said. Maybe the local cops genuinely couldn’t retrieve the messages. Or maybe they just didn’t see a need to, with all the other evidence working against the idea of an unwilful disappearance. As I consider what I would’ve done in the same situation, I realize that I’ve left out an obvious question.

“Do you remember what the guy who said he was a reporter looked like?” I ask. “How old or any distinct features?”

Charlotte shrugs. “Just a regular dude, I think. Nothing that would make me look twice. Maybe he was thirty or forty? But he was wearing a ball cap and a hoodie, and it was a super miserable day. I didn’t look as carefully as I should’ve, I guess. And honestly? When I called him out, he left so quickly that I didn’t even alert campus security.”

The ping at the mention of the man’s hoodie is overridden by the second half of her statements. “You didn’t report it? Not even with Jennika missing?”

“I didn’t think I needed to. We were outside the building in full view of a dozen other students. And besides that, the police were absolutely sure that she left because she wanted to. So I just bitched to my friends about being approached by the guy, and I was done with it.”

“Right. I get it.”

“Does any of it help at all?” she asks hopefully.

I don’t manage to give her my assurance before a dull buzzing sound cuts through the air.

“That’s probably my actual pizza,” Charlotte tells me, jumping up to grab the phone that’s hardwired into the wall, then speaking into the receiver. “Hello? Yeah, you can bring it up. Floor two, unit four. See you in a sec.”

I wait for her to hang up, then hold out the tablet for her to take. “I really appreciate your time. But I think your food is my cue to go.”

“If you find something out…can I give you my number so that you can tell me?”

“If I can, I will.” I hand her my phone so she can plug in her info, then smile as I take it back. “Thanks again, Charlotte.”

I leave quickly, retracing my path back to the front doors and across campus to the parking lot. But as I reach my car and move to open the door, a thought makes me pause.

Why would someone who’d already harmed her come back to her place and expose himself by asking questions?

I don’t know why the inconsistency didn’t immediately jump out at me. Because it doesn’t make sense. Sure, it happens sometimes that a perp insinuates himself into an investigation. But this particular scenario doesn’t feel like that. So what does it mean? And why wouldn’t he delete the dating account if he had the capability of deleting so many other details of her life? That doesn’t make sense, either.

Unless it’s because Jennika really did leave on her own.

I acknowledge the idea as a strong probability, but as I climb into the driver’s seat, I keep pondering the whole thing. The reporter guy, at least, is real. And his odd behavior—as described by Charlotte—doesn’t match with what I’d expect from a legitimate member of the media. And if I assume that he’s not behind Jennika’s disappearance, then I need to find another role for him.

“Maybe it was the online dating guy,” I say aloud. “Maybe he thought something was off, too, but didn’t want to get caught in the middle of it.”

All the more reason to search out Smarty-Pants.

“Why even wait?”

Nodding to myself, I pull my phone from my pocket, download the app, and log into Jennika’s dating account to have a look around. I find a frustrating amount of nothing. She has no history of matches. There’s no indication that she ever saved any of the available men as favorites. And while there are eleven men who have her profile marked, none of them make my instincts jump to life. And as the missing woman’s roommate had said, Smarty-Pants is nowhere to be found. I’m about to give up when a last-minute idea occurs to me.

Quickly, I sign out of Jennika’s account, then begin the process of creating my own. In minutes, I become Forensics-Fanatic11, a student at Whimsy U who has more than her share of things in common with Jennika. Same birth year, same general interests.

I flick through the photos on my phone until I find one that makes me look younger and softer than I am in real life, and I upload it. Finally, I use Jennika’s exact words to describe what I’m after in my love life—a lasting relationship—and I hit the publish button. For a second after I’m done, I stare at the screen as though I’m expecting some kind of immediate response.

C’mon, Smarty-Pants, I urge silently. Aren’t you just sitting there, waiting for someone like me?

Of course, nothing happens. And there are a hundred plausible reasons for that, a good many of which could have zilch to do with Jennika. Smarty-Pants might even have simply walked away from the dating app. But I still give it another few moments of futile staring at the small screen.

My thumb bangs a rhythm on the steering wheel. I consider reaching out for help from someone at my own station, back in Vancouver. Roddy in tech is always happy to give me a hand with things that are a little outside the box. In fact, I get the impression that he kind of likes going rogue now and then. Assuming, of course, that he isn’t going to change his tune now that associating with me might have some blowback. But as I weigh the idea, the clock in the dash catches my eye, and I realize that asking for help is going to be put on hold if I want to be on time to meet Gabe.