Chapter Twenty-Eight

My heart is in my throat, and blood rushes thickly through my head as I sink down onto the steps in the garage. I click on my phone. What other option is there? I can’t ignore the message that I sought out. But the tap of my finger makes the app pop up a warning that seems ominous under the current circumstances.

'Smarty-Pants will be notified that you have read this message. This action can’t be undone. Proceed?'

“Shit,” I say.

I hadn’t counted on the dating website requiring that level of transparency.

If you were using the service for real, you’d appreciate it.

Better to know who’s checking me out than to not know. Except right now, all it does is make me uneasy.

I squint at the tiny picture beside the message notification. It’s a man in sunglasses and a ballcap. The look someone perfects when they prefer to remain anonymous. Which makes me even antsier. And I’m a little afraid to click the image. I want to view his profile. I have no choice, really. Just like I had to click, I also have to look. But I’m not exactly eager to accept the possible consequences that go along with it.

“This is what you were after,” I remind myself. “You literally baited him.”

But why did he take the bait in question so easily? Is it because he genuinely has a type, and my ruse fits the bill? Or is it something darker? Something to do with Jennika’s disappearance? What are the chances that Smarty-Pants just happened to reactivate his account right now?

“Slim to none, Calhoun, and you know it.”

I take a breath, and I tap the screen again, agreeing to the terms so that I can bring up the message.

'What is it that you’re after?' it reads.

And there’s a green dot beside the words, indicating that the sender is currently online.

The air in the garage seems to grow colder. Thinner, too. But I make myself type a calm reply.

'I don’t know what you mean.' I hit send.

The app flickers. 'Smarty-Pants is typing,' it tells me.

My palms sweat as I wait. I should’ve called Roddy in tech. Why did I talk myself out of doing it?

You still can. You can go inside and use Gabe’s phone.

Clutching my cell, I stand up. But I don’t even manage to turn around before the electronic device chimes in my hand. Automatically, I look down.

'Are you really looking for a “lasting relationship,” or is that just something you put up to make yourself look sweet and innocent?' Smarty-Pants has written.

“Asshole,” I say under my breath.

My fingers tap the screen. 'That’s not a very nice thing to ask.'

'I guess that means I’m not a nice guy,' Smarty-Pants says.

I close my eyes and tell myself that the message has a flirtatious overtone rather than a knife-edged undertone. It helps. A little.

I open my eyes and craft a reply. 'Are we just going to play games, then?'

'Why? Is that what you’re into?' Smarty-Pants asks.

'Not me…' I type.

'If either of us is playing games, it isn’t me,' he tells me. 'You’re not a student at Whimsy U, are you?' Smarty-Pants has written.

I draw in a small breath. 'What makes you say that?'

The response is so quick that the app barely has time to inform me that it’s coming.

'Because I know all the pretty girls there,' Smarty-Pants says.

I open my eyes again, and I type, 'Then I guess you have me at a disadvantage.'

'I guess I do,' he replies.

“Fuck off,” I whisper, my irritation spiking as I decide to stop messing around.

'Did you have Jennika at a disadvantage, too?' I ask.

A minute passes. Then another. I picture the person on the other side of the conversation. A hooded figure. Angry, mysterious, and with sinister intentions. But still just a man. Fallible.

I write another message. 'What? You didn’t think I knew about her?'

There’s still no reply, and I feel triumphant. Like I’ve got a momentary upper hand. So I roll with it.

'Feeling guilty, Smarty-Pants? Do you have something to confess?' I ask.

At last I get an answer.

'If you’re trying to trick me into putting something in writing, it won’t work,' he says.

I stare down at the screen, feeling a moment of triumph at having rattled him enough to at least get him to admit that he knows what I’m talking about. I begin to type a response, but before I can even start, the stream of messages disappears.

“No. Hell, no.”

I tap and tap and tap some more. It’s all to no avail. And when I navigate to the app’s home screen and perform a search for Smarty-Pants, I get nothing. With gritted teeth, I click back to my messages screen, which remains empty.

Why did I push so hard, so quickly? And why the hell didn’t I screenshot the conversation? In fact, why the hell didn’t I do anything that I should’ve done?

But maybe it’s not too late. Maybe I can still salvage the situation.

Quickly—like the speed of my movements will make a difference—I jab angrily at my phone until I’ve got my trusted tech’s personal number on the screen. I jab again, and the line rings twice before I hear Roddy’s voice.

“Trinity?” he greets, sounding utterly surprised. “What—”

“I need your help.”

“Uh. Okay. Yeah.”

I breathe out. “Can you trace messages from someone who’s deleted their account on a dating site?”

There’s a pause. “I…what?”

I do my best to keep my impatience in check; none of this is Roddy’s fault.

“I’ve got an account on a dating app. I was messaging with someone, and he suddenly disappeared from the site completely,” I explain. “Is there a way to trace him? Find out where he was messaging from, or anything else that will help me identify him?”

Roddy pauses again, longer this time. And I wait for him to remind me that I’m on leave, and that I ought not be trying to trace anyone at all. But he doesn’t.

“You got ghosted?” he asks instead.

It takes me a good second to catch up to his meaning. He thinks I was on the dating site for personal reasons. And following from that, he thinks I just got rejected. To which my reaction is a knee jerk denial. No! No, I didn’t get ghosted, thank you very much, Roddy. But I manage to keep from saying the defensive words aloud.

I clear my throat. “Can you do it?”

“I might be able to,” the tech guru tells me. “In fact, I probably can. But I sure as hell shouldn’t.”

“Please. This is important. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”

His tone changes to one of concern. “If this is because some guy is giving you a problem…”

“It’s not,” I assure him. “It’s complicated, and it’s personal, but I need to find out whatever I can.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want? I mean, we can probably get someone to help.”

“I need to do this myself. And it’s your help I need, Roddy.”

“Shit,” he mutters. “Okay, just…hang on. You know it’s Saturday, and I’m not in the office, right?”

Even though he can’t see me, I nod. “Yes. That’s probably better anyway.”

“Hang on,” he says again.

And I wait. On the other end, I hear shuffling, then a baby crying. A woman in the background says something I can’t quite make out, and I remember that Roddy and his wife have a newborn. I brush off a flicker of guilt at having interrupted their family time. There’s a bit more shuffling, followed by a door clicking shut, and finally, the light tap-tap-tap of fingers on a keyboard.

Roddy’s voice fills my ear again. “This is breaking more than a few rules and possibly a few laws. Just FYI.”

“I promise that I’ll take all the blame.”

“All right. Were you using your phone to access the dating site?”

“I was,” I confirm.

“Okay. And what’s it called?”

I tell him, and there’s a few more taps before he coughs lightly.

“I’m—sorry, but—I, uh. I’ll need your login stuff, too. Username. Password. Sorry,” he says.

I give him that info, too, and listen as he clicks some more.

“Anything?” I ask after a protracted moment of silence.

“Yeah, I’m just confused. Are you in a place called Whimsy?”

“It’s my hometown.”

“Oh. Weird.”

“Yeah, I didn’t name it.”

“No. It’s not that. I mean, I knew you were on leave, I just didn’t realize you’d taken a trip.”

“It was spontaneous.” My patience wavers. “Roddy…”

“Sorry. Right. I’m on it,” he says. “So the IP address for the router you’re using belongs to a residential address.”

“Yes.”

“But mostly, over the last couple of days, you’ve been at a place called the Queen Inn?”

“Also yes,” I say, not bothering to ask how he knows—I’m used to Roddy’s technical prowess.

“Okay. Well, I can’t see the messages you mentioned. Although…I could probably find a way. But that’s not my point. Right now, what I can see is that for the last little while, the bits of tech info that connect your phone and the dating site are sourced from there.”

“Sourced from the Queen Inn?”

“That’s right.”

I let his words sink in, then breathe out a curse. “Jesus.”

“Yeah, Jesus is right,” Roddy agrees. “This is basically that moment in the horror movie where someone tells you that the call is coming from inside your house.”

“Not funny.”

“I’m not even making a joke.”

What in God’s name is Smarty-Pants trying to do? Why is he at my hotel? What does it mean? Does he know who I am? If he does, why take a risk like this? Because he can’t genuinely believe that if he keeps it up, he won’t get caught. Because if he’s not just some creep on a dating app, and he’s in any way responsible for Jennika’s disappearance, then I will catch him. I’m going to catch him. Like…now.

I stand up, almost forgetting about Roddy until he speaks again.

“Trinity?” he says. “Are you still there?”

I force my voice to come out as light as possible. “I’m here. But I won’t be in a second. I’ve gotta go.”

His reply is uncertain. “Okay. And if you need anything else…”

“Just one more thing.”

“Sure.”

I’m about to ask him to look into Jennika’s profile, but at the last second, I change my mind. Right now, Roddy thinks this is about me. And I’m pretty sure he won’t rat me out to our mutual boss for a personal matter. But if he thinks it’s something more, I can’t be certain. And I don’t want to stymie my investigation just minutes after getting my first clue that something might be going on for real.

“Please keep this between us,” I say instead.

“Yeah, you got it.”

I tap the phone off, then stuff it into my pocket. I need to head for the Queen Inn. I wish I was there now. But I have to weigh the possibilities carefully.

If Smarty-Pants has deliberately situated himself at my hotel, then he might also know that I’m away from my room. He might’ve chosen this moment to message me for that very reason. Playing it safe. Being assured that I can’t get to him. Then again, if he’s aware of my current location, why bother with messaging me from the hotel? It’s not like he could know that I’d figure it out.

But he is there, I decide. Just sitting around on his narcissistic ass, thinking about how powerful he is, and how he knows so much more than I do.

And it gives me an edge.

I actually smile a little at the thought of sneaking up on him. I’m coming for you, Smarty-Pants. And I’m kind of looking forward to it.

I tuck my phone away and get ready to go. Despite my surety that the man is hunkered down at the Queen Inn, I don’t completely toss aside caution when I exit Gabe’s house. In fact, I’m very careful. First, I go back inside and take a surreptitious look through each window, searching for signs of anyone lurking nearby. I also check all of the doors for signs of tampering. Then I peek through the windows once more. And when I finally make my way out of the garage, I do it slowly. I ease past a shelf full of home-maintenance supplies. I tuck so closely to the wall that I just about knock a hammer and a paintbrush off their hook. When I step to the exterior of the house, I stay prepared to dive for cover to fight hand-to-hand. I scrutinize each potential hiding place in the short distance between my parking space and the driveway. But I get to my car without incident. And my examination of the outside of the vehicle turns up nothing suspicious, either.

My final inspection takes place when I’m in the driver’s seat. I take a look around for any sign that the car has been broken into, then sealed up again. Nothing stands out. And when I turn over the engine, I note that the radio is set to the same station at the same volume as it had been when I climbed out. It’s a small detail. But one that’s reassuring. My thumbs tap the steering wheel as I ponder it for another second, then I flip on my signal, pull onto the street, and start my navigation back to the hotel.

Halfway there, I decide to make a quick detour. I stop at a convenience store to arm myself as best as I’m able. There’s not much to choose from—and nothing quite as confidence-enhancing as my service weapon—and I wonder if I should go back to Gabe’s to seek out something formidable. But it might be overkill. I don’t know for sure that Smarty-Pants is a threat. More importantly, I don’t know how much time I have before he leaves the hotel, and I also have no idea what Gabe might keep on hand in terms of something weapon-like. A hammer is hardly subtle. So I finally settle for a can of bear spray and a good-sized utility knife, smiling and nodding as the salesclerk asks if I’m taking a hike in the surrounding mountains. Then I’m on my way again.

My alert level rises even more when I near the hotel. I circle around the block once, then twice, searching for an out-of-place vehicle. None stand out as being either too rundown or too high-end for the area. But I don’t let my guard down. And I don’t park in the lot, either.

He’s in there, I think as I come to a halt on the street, just out of sight. I can feel it.

I remain vigilant as I park, assessing my surroundings before I climb out. I move slowly toward the hotel. I tuck my head as low as I dare while still keeping a careful eye on everything in the immediate vicinity. Nothing catches my attention. Nothing makes me pause. That doesn’t mean I’m going to charge straight in. Whether Smarty-Pants is a suspect or just a hostile witness, I don’t want him to know I’m coming. So I continue on my path, but I bypass the front entrance for the hotel and instead head for the construction zone. I’m 100 percent certain that there will be a way in for the workers, and since it’s the weekend, chances are good that they won’t be on-site. And more importantly, I doubt that Smarty-Pants will be paying attention to this particular way in.

Carefully, I duck under the temporary scaffolding and slide behind a tarp. And I see right away that my supposition is correct. A door-less doorframe—covered with a piece of thick plastic with a slit down the middle and marked with a sign that reads Crew Entrance Only—is front and center.

“Perfect,” I whisper.

I cast a glance in either direction, then push aside the plastic and step into a small stairwell. Just ahead of me are eight cement steps and a ramp, both of which lead to a landing and a wide door, and I decide that this must normally be a service entrance of some kind. Which is perfect again, because it’s not likely to lead into an area populated by hotel guests.

I traverse the stairs quickly, and then try the door. It’s not locked, which could be either a simple oversight or just trust in the relative safety of the small-town vibe. I don’t care either way. I take advantage and open the door extra slowly. The hallway on the other side is quite dim and also blissfully devoid of company.

In silence, I pad along the commercial grade carpet until I reach another door. There, I pause to press my ear against the wood to listen for sounds on the other side. And I can definitely hear human activity carrying through.

Very, very cautiously, I inch the door open. What I see through the narrow crack is the lobby. But thankfully, my spot is obscured by an excess of fake foliage, and I appear to be in a more secluded corner of the open space anyway. I push the door open a tiny bit more and attempt to get a more thorough look. And as I do, it crosses my mind that unless there’s a neon sign hanging over his head, I might not even have a way to recognize Smarty-Pants. I’ve been so caught up in my endeavors that I haven’t considered how I’ll know it’s him. Or if I will. Sure, I’ll be looking for a man with an electronic device at the ready. Except that doesn’t exactly narrow it down. My feet stall. I scan the area and drop a curse under my breath.

“Shit.”

Just within my current sightline, I spot three different guys who fit the bill. Two staring down at their phones and one sitting in a chair with a laptop on his knees.

I take a step forward, seeking a clue as to whether one of these men is Smarty-Pants. But when I lift my foot again, a hand taps my shoulder, stopping me from going any farther.