Chapter 2 Arrow #3
She grows serious, worrying that lip again between her teeth, then shrugs the backpack off her shoulder.
She sets the thing in her lap and, finally, starts talking.
“I’m a grad student,” she explains as she works the zipper open.
“I wasn’t supposed to go to grad school, but about two months ago, my dad told me he didn’t want me working in his office anymore.
He wanted me to pursue my dreams.” She laughs, but the sound is flat, not joyful.
“He’s never supported my dreams of being an artist before, which was why I was working for him in the first place. ”
I nod, watching as she reaches a hand inside her backpack. I study her carefully, curious for a second as to whether she’s got a weapon in there.
“Hey,” I say sharply, nodding at her bag.
She jumps at the edge in my tone and doesn’t move.
“You carrying?” I demand. “Anything in there I should be worried about?”
Her shoulders release like tightly wound springs. “Oh God, no. No, sorry. I don’t have a gun. Nothing in here like that.” She holds up a small fabric pouch. “Needle and thread, some fabric. One pair of really sharp scissors. I’m an artist. Textiles.”
I nod for her to continue since I don’t think this Annie Hancock is here to exact revenge on behalf of one of my former clients. I watch her body language as she pulls a glossy blue folder from her backpack.
“About two months ago, my dad told me he’d pulled some strings and had gotten me into Mid-Florida College of Fine Arts. That was super weird. Dad has always wanted me to follow in his footsteps and work with him.”
“And what’s your father’s line of work again?” I ask.
“Lawyer,” she says. “So, what’s weird is that the application period closed months ago. To get into the masters’ program, you have to put together a portfolio of work, complete a personal statement, and get letters of recommendation. I didn’t do any of that.”
That is odd. “Your old man do all that for you? Maybe as a surprise from Daddy?”
“I’m not some spoiled rich kid, Mr. Arrow,” she says, the first real grit I’ve heard in her voice. “My father’s a real estate attorney. We’re not rolling in money. Far from it.”
“But you think he bought your way into grad school? Is that what you’re implying?”
She shrugs. “I don’t really know. I did have to go through the steps and complete my application, but it was all very late. I got a conditional acceptance letter before I even applied.”
“So, you did apply, then?” Something here just ain’t adding up.
The kid wanted to go to art school, and her dad decided to send her.
Sounds simple enough. “Maybe he had a change of heart. A recent health scare. He realized life’s too short to force your kid to be a lawyer when she really wants to do…
” I already forgot what kind of art she said she does, but she reminds me.
“Textile art.” She sniffs lightly and shakes her head. “I wish that were the case,” she says. “But I don’t think so. I wouldn’t have worried about it and would’ve just thrown myself into the opportunity, but then this happened…”
She slides the glossy blue folder, the kind I used in high school to keep my homework from wrinkling, across the desk to me.
“These letters…” she starts, but then her voice catches. “I thought they were maybe just a mean joke. Maybe someone at school found out I got in around the normal channels and was pranking me. Until this last one.”
I open the folder and see several notes handwritten on lined paper tucked into the pockets. “Have you shown these to anyone else?” I ask. “Your father? Any campus security people or anything?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want my father to pull me out of school,” she admits. “And I’m afraid if I involve campus security, they’ll call my father.”
That all sounds reasonable enough if she’s getting shitty notes delivered to her. But if she’s really worried about her safety, I can’t understand why she wouldn’t alert anybody and everybody who might be able to sort this out. Her father, the school. The police, if it’s serious enough.
“Has anyone else touched these?” I ask. “Just you?”
She looks confused but nods.
“I’m going to grab a pair of gloves. If these ever need to be examined for fingerprints, I’d rather not leave mine behind or destroy what might still be there.”
“Oh God.” She pales and watches me as I get up and walk into my office to retrieve a standard pair of latex gloves from a supply cabinet.
“Do you think it’s that serious, Mr. Arrow?
I’ve read and reread these like dozens of times.
I’ve touched them so much that I can’t imagine anyone else’s prints are on them. ”
“Call me Josh,” I say, sliding on the gloves. “Let’s leave that to the experts when and if it goes there. For now, I’m just going to be cautious.”
I suppress a groan when I see she hasn’t just read them tons of times, she’s used a Sharpie and labeled each note with a date and time. All except one.
“This,” I say, pointing to the bright-red Sharpie ink. “This is you?”
She nods. “The date and time I found each note. Except the last one. That one came this morning.”
I carefully open each note and read them in order.
And after I read the last one, I’m absolutely certain what this woman needs is more than just a strip mall PI. She needs to go to the police.