Fallen Stars (Stone Bay Series Book 3)

Chapter 5

In times like this,I wish I wasn’t so good at my job.

Since Tymber handed over the Messer file weeks ago, I’ve been neck-deep in research. I sifted through the national missing persons database for any information they had on Sydney Messer. Then I filtered the database for other recent missing persons in the Northwest under age eighteen. As of Monday, the four cities I’m focusing on—Seattle, Tacoma, Olympia, and Portland—have reported more than a hundred missing persons in the past sixty days.

To some, an average of twenty-five missing minors in each city isn’t high. They might argue that thousands of children go missing every year.

But this is different.

The hundred-plus faces I’ve burned into my brain aren’t toddlers lost in a store. They aren’t delinquent children mad at their parents who pack a bag and run away. Each of the missing persons is between twelve and seventeen years old. Majority of them were out with others their age, then abducted once alone.

Last week, in coordination with James Messer, Tymber and I set up a website for people to submit information, anonymous or not. Though Sydney Messer is who we are being paid to locate, the website has images, names, and minimal details of the other children reported missing.

Every morning, when I check the submission log, there are no less than twenty new entries. Some submissions contain repetitive information. But at least once a day, we get new intelligence. Minor yet major clues such as height or hair color or someone struggling near a specific location. Each new piece is added to the ever-expanding file and compared to other tips submitted.

But as the hours have dragged on with no significant leads, as desperation to find these children has eaten away at my soul, I’ve started digging in the darkest pits of hell.

Accessing the dark web is no easy feat. It takes specific programs. You need to be friendly with people that lurk in those grotesque, shadowed places. Worst of all, you have to pretend to be one of them. Dive into this deplorable mindset. Speak their language without hesitation.

Needless to say, I haven’t eaten much in the past couple of weeks. And most of what I’ve eaten hasn’t stayed down. I wish I could say it’s strictly the morbid images and vile conversations I’ve seen online that have me vomiting once or more a day. But it’s not the only reason.

As promised, I’ve given Oliver space. Let him do his thing while I do mine.

But it’s been twelve fucking miserable days since the day in his garage. Since I told him about my brilliant idea to fake date Abigail. Since I wanted to take his face in my hands, press my lips to his, and show him where my heart really lies. Where it has been for several years.

Other than work, my focus has been shit. If anything, since Oliver and I entered limbo, all I do is work. Sleep is a joke. Keeping up pretenses with Tymber, my parents, and Abigail is a challenge.

I fucking hate it.

A ping echoes through the room and I shift my attention to the top right screen. Rows of code fill the screen and I scan each line. Hunt for the smallest of clues.

“What is that?”

I inch closer to the screen and narrow my eyes. Scan a section of code again and again. Lose focus as I read the jumbled, nonsensical words for the fifth time.

“A code within the code,” I mutter then laugh. “Smart, sick motherfuckers.”

Anyone with expansive coding knowledge should pick up on it. See the intricate details sprinkled throughout several lines. On an actual site, they’d be Easter eggs hidden in images or random text. Something these sadistic bastards would know how to find.

But not everyone in government offices has programming expertise or the right brainpower to decipher these hidden messages. The front end of missing persons is your average investigator. A person with a badge and ambition.

I screenshot the lines and add them to the file. Then, I spend the next hour decoding it. And when I finally have what I believe is the clue, I question if I got it right: golden wings overhead.

“What the hell does that mean?”

I stare at the words until my eyes cross and my mind warps. A riddle within deciphered code. A phrase that sends a message to all who land on this page. But what the hell is the message?

Sifting through my memory bank, I search for yellow or golden-colored birds and their names. When I hit a dead end, I scan the web. Nothing makes sense.

“Maybe it’s not a bird…”

My phone vibrates on the desk and I glance at the screen to see a text alert. Hope soars in my chest that Oliver is breaking the silence.

Ignoring work, I swipe up my phone and see the message is from Abigail. Instantly, I deflate.

Should I be the one to reach out first? Or would I upset him for overstepping?

Fuck.I wish I knew.

Tapping on the notification, I read Abigail’s message.

Abi

Sorry to bug you at work. We should grab a bite tonight. Mom asked me how things were going. She didn’t like my lack of details.

A little more than two weeks have passed since we agreed to fake date. Since that night in the gardens, Abigail and I have spent maybe two hours together for dinner. And, of course, our parents were present. After the night ended, she texted to suggest we get to know each other better. That way, we can answer mundane questions our parents ask when we’re not in the same room.

So we’ve been texting almost daily. Nothing life-changing. More like the small details—favorite foods, music, sports, things we’ve done recently. Considering she works with her mom, she has a higher chance of being asked questions.

Over the past couple of weeks, a friendship has formed as we’ve chatted. It’s nice to add another person to my small list of friends.

No worries. I needed a break. I’m good with dinner. Where?

Anywhere our parents won’t be lol

At this, I laugh.

We both come from wealthy families with high expectations, though her family is a bit more laid back than mine. A lot of people think money equals happiness. For us, it’s a prison sentence with unattainable expectations.

I can’t wholeheartedly speak for Abigail, but all I want is to be myself. Just Levi. Not some stuffy politician with an overinflated ego. Not someone deemed town royalty because his great-times-however-many-grandfather was dubbed a town founder over a hundred years ago.

All I want is a simple, normal life. One that includes Oliver.

Sloppy’s BBQ

My family wouldn’t set foot inside the local laid-back barbecue joint. Abigail’s dad or brother, maybe, but unlikely.

Good choice. 7?

7 works

Meet you there. Have a good day ??

I react with a thumbs-up, lock my phone, and toss it aside.

Elbows on the desk, I drop my head in my hands and fist my hair. Pinch my eyes closed and groan at the reality of my life.

Secrets. So many damn secrets. My own concealed truths. The ones I unearth at work. And now this… pretending to be with someone I have zero interest in romantically just to appease my parents and hers.

It’s too much. A weight that grows heavier by the day. A weight I won’t be able to support forever.

“Last weekend, we went to Lake Lavender for some RR.” Abigail sighs from her side of the booth. “It was so nice to walk around and hold hands and not worry about people seeing us together.”

I pick at the baked beans on my plate and hum.

“Have you been there?”

Swapping my fork for my drink, I take a long sip and shake my head.

“Such a cute town. Small like ours, but less pretentious.” She laughs.

I remain mute on my side of the booth.

Has Abigail always talked this much?

I think back to every occasion we’ve been in the same room together. Not once do I recall her prattling on like this. If I’m honest, it grates my nerves.

She blathers on about her romantic weekend in Lake Lavender with her boyfriend, Desmond. I nod and hum at all the right times but otherwise disengage from the conversation.

Am I the asshole for basically giving her the cold shoulder? Yes. Without question.

Do I give a fuck that I’ve detached myself from the situation? No, not a single fuck is given.

I made my stance in this situationship abundantly clear. It’s all for show. A way to shut our parents up and get them off our backs. Period.

Sure, I should be friendlier toward Abigail. At least act as though I’m interested in her life. Be a friend.

But why add another lie to the stack? It’s not as if I’m outgoing and chipper with Tymber or Oliver. Why be someone I’m not for her? If anything, that’d make it worse.

When she realizes I have yet to engage in conversation, she asks about work. How it’s going. What project has me so busy and exhausted. I give her brief, vague answers and tell her I’m not at liberty to share details.

And then, somehow, the conversation feels lighter.

She tells me about her boyfriend and what he does for a living—retirement home nurse. That they’re saving up and hope to move out of Stone Bay in the next year or two. She talks about her nephew, Tucker, and the hardships he’s endured since his mom abandoned him with her brother.

Surprising myself, I tell her I’d like to meet her boyfriend. That we should all hang out together sometime. Make this already awkward situation a little less uncomfortable.

When the suggestion leaves my lips, I immediately think of Oliver. How I wish it was him across the table instead of Abigail. How I wish I could bring him along when Abigail brings her boyfriend.

The rest of dinner is a blur of more one-sided conversation. Unfortunately for her, I don’t feel bad for my silence.

This is all a farce and I don’t need to know her. Nothing more than basics. We can be surface-level friends without spilling all our truths or secrets.

We skip dessert and I pay the bill. Roughly an hour after slipping into the booth, we head for the exit. I hold the door open and let her walk out first.

The wind whips her hair and she laughs, tucking it behind her ears. A few steps into the lot, I turn in the direction of my car, ready to leave.

“Thanks, Levi.”

Not wanting to be a total dick, I turn around. “No problem.”

She takes a step in my direction, but there’s still a solid two or three feet between us. “You’ve made this whole thing a little less weird.” She laughs.

I don’t know what to say or how to react to that, so I remain silent and still.

When she takes another step and reaches for my arm, I inch back. And as I do, movement in my periphery draws my attention. Shifting my gaze across the side street, I freeze.

Just outside the pizza restaurant, Oliver stands impossibly still, his eyes glued to my face. He may be several feet away, but the hurt in his eyes is undeniable.

With a subtle shake of his head, he wilts.

The sight is a jagged knife to the heart.

Abigail forgotten, I walk toward Oliver. When he starts to move, I lengthen my stride.

“Ollie!”

He picks up speed, and so do I. And then I’m running across the street, ignoring traffic and pedestrians and everything else trying to stop me from getting to him.

I just need to reach him.

Please let me make it to him before he drives off.

“Ollie!”