16. Chapter 16
Chapter 16
Melanie
Another dawn, another scan of the Whispering Pines online newspaper. For two weeks, every morning I've searched for any hint of charges against the Whitakers, any bombs, any deaths. My heart stops each time I see their name. So far, there’s been nothing detrimental. Part of me wants to believe Michael was bluffing, that the newspapers he showed me were just elaborate fakes meant to terrorize me into running. But the fact that he would come up with such damning and frightening false stories shows exactly what kind of lunatic he is. Who would destroy an entire family just to prove he can?
Today the lead story caught my eye. Two days ago, a woman in the neighboring town of Boulder Canyon went missing. A thirty-two-year-old, single, first-grade teacher. The article shows her picture; she's pretty. It says she disappeared after leaving the school at three forty-five, others saw her drive off in her vehicle. She didn't return to work the next day. Her car was found parked on the road that connected my town and hers. There's a reward for any information leading to finding her.
As I read, my heart feels heavier and heavier. This has Michael written all over it. Did he take her instead of me? Has she been a target or just a casualty of his rage?
The thought makes me nauseous. A wave of guilt washes over me for this poor woman. By now Michael knows what I've done, that I've slipped through his fingers. The great Michael, outsmarted by a woman he saw as easy prey. I may have gotten away from him, but I live in fear of him showing up. Some days every noise in my apartment makes me jump. I constantly think, is today the day his fury finally tracks me down?
But now as I look at the missing woman, I can't help but feel that I caused her disappearance. That because I escaped, he punished her. Sending me a message that the chase is still on.
Hypervigilance exhausts me, but I can't let my guard down. Not when one mistake could cost everything. Still, after two weeks of constant fear, I'm thinking more strategically. I've begun my investigation into Michael. And this morning over coffee, a revelation hit me - there might be a way to check on Mom and my aunt without risking contact.
As their power of attorney, I have access to their patient portal. Their doctor updates everything - medication changes, nurse visits, even Mom's weekly blood pressure readings. My hands shake as I log in, dreading what I might find. One new message from yesterday, clicking it open, I read:
“Increased patient's anti-anxiety medication following sister's report of agitation during recent home visitors. Recommend limiting new visitors when possible.”
“Moses, they're okay!” The relief makes me giddy. My supposedly fierce guard cat doesn't even twitch from his nap. “Fine, we'll celebrate later.”
I close the portal quickly even this small digital footprint feels dangerous. Michael's reach through technology terrifies me. But at least I know they're safe; that gives me hope and motivation. I can't allow another girl to go missing. I won't allow Michael to win.
Unfortunately, I can't go back to work. I'd be risking everything. He could have a tracker program that follows my IP address straight to me. I know I've elevated Michael's computer abilities to something akin to Q in a James Bond book, but I can't help it. They say the best offense is a good defense; well, I need to have both. My attention to detail, pattern recognition, strategic thinking, yet humanistic approaches to my journalism is what got me to where I am. Those skills are what's now keeping me alive.
Luckily, Mom has enough money in the account for both of us to live on for a while. I've set up a labyrinth of bank accounts, transferring money between them in patterns designed to obscure the trail. I learned that from a woman's post about how she got her money when she was on the run. I even got Mrs. Post to let me direct deposit into her account. Is it paranoid? Probably. But paranoia is keeping me breathing.
When I can sleep, my mind is clearer. Three times when I've woken, I've written down Michael's threats. Each version reveals new details, building a horrifying picture. Whoever they are, it seems they have a certain type of women. The girl in the newspaper has close to the same color hair as me, same build. The implications turn my stomach. I'm confident Michael is operating on the dark web. I know he's too careful, too controlling to just be Michael. I need to be more confident and not feel like I'm playing with fire. That one wrong click could shoot me into a Zoom meeting face to face with him.
The worst part? Every discovery, every piece of evidence I gather, is something I can't share with Cameron. Sometimes the need to call him, to warn him about the monster he thinks is his friend, is so strong I have to physically sit on my hands to stop myself from reaching for the phone. I miss him with an ache that never eases. I just want everyone safe and Michael behind bars. But none of that is going to happen until I have proof of who he really is.
Michael
“Well done,” the politician praised me. “The new lady is more... spirited. And certainly, more entertaining to watch, much more.”
I allow a small smile, forcing silk into my voice while inside I want to punch him in his wheezy face. If these fucking pricks weren't paying so well, I'd do humanity a favor and off every one of them. But as it is, I'll entertain them as long as they keep paying.
“Thank you.” I clenched my toes, not showing them any more than what I allowed. “She did offer a better show, didn't she?” Deep breath. Control.
“Yes,” the oldest Sheik brother laughed. “I particularly liked when she punched him like she was some prize fighter.” That brought about several laughs from the group.
“And when he threw her after she kicked him.” My televangelist chuckled. “Priceless!”
Well, it wasn't priceless. It was actually a good evening for me. A three-million-dollar good evening.
“Do you have more of these women?” The younger Sheik brother asked.
“I'll continue expanding our selection.” I said, allowing them a few more comments. The moment the call ends, I slam my fist into the desk. That school teacher should have been Melanie! Two weeks. Two fucking weeks she's managed to evade me. My men have combed every street, shown her picture in every shop. Nothing. Either someone grabbed her, in which case she's damaged goods and useless to me, or she's gotten help. A trucker, maybe, someone who got her out of my immediate reach. But I'll find my scared little bunny; she has to be hiding somewhere. No one just vanishes. I'm scouring all her bank accounts and her work portal. I was already a student in her class under an alias but so far, she hasn't surfaced. Until she does, I'll just keep getting the asses more entertainment.
My phone lights up with Cameron's face. Again. I send it to voicemail, lip curling at how pathetic he is. “Have you found anything?” His whiny voice plays over in my head. Do I even need him anymore? His death might smoke her out of hiding while she's still soft enough to care. But that would end the game too quickly. No, watching him slowly lose faith in her is much more satisfying. I think I'll continue down the path I started a week ago. Maybe it's starting to take root.
I mimicked my previous conversation with him. “You know Cameron, I'd never steer you wrong. I'll always give it to you straight. Well, it's been a while, we seriously should consider that the 'I don't love you anymore' note was her real feelings.” I chuckled. “He's pathetic and weak.”
Cameron
Maybe Michael's right. That thought circles endlessly in my head as I stare at the pills Colton prescribed - the ones I said I didn't want, but he sent home with Mom anyway. I still can't bring myself to take them. Maybe Melanie did just... leave. Just walked away when the reality of marriage hit her. His words echo: “Since she left a note, and you haven't heard a word. I'm just saying.”
I've replayed every moment of our relationship until I'm sick with it. The way she'd curl into me while we watched movies. How she'd steal my coffee even though she had her own. The sound of her laugh echoing through our house. Were there signs I missed? Some hint that she was unhappy? That she was playing me?
The frame on my desk shows us at Christmas, her face turned up to mine, eyes shining with what I thought was love. Now, I wonder if she was already planning her escape. If every kiss, every “I love you,” every shared dream was just an elaborate lie.
But why? Why wouldn't she end it before the day of the wedding? I just don't understand. I thought she loved me. I love her. My family says she loves me. If she loves me, why doesn't she get in touch?
And now, Mom told me at breakfast a younger teacher went missing in the next town over. She left after school, other teachers saw her drive off. But she hasn't been seen since. Is she connected with Mel's disappearance?
Michael's been running searches non-stop, using technology I couldn't even understand. If he can't find her, if he can't even find a trace of her. The implications make me want to vomit. Does it mean she doesn't want to be found? Or is she gone, for good?
I picked up the wedding invitation, fingers tracing words that mock me: “... joyfully invite you to celebrate their love...” Was it a joke? Was it real? While I was dreaming of our future, was she laughing at how she played me for a fool?
The bottle of bourbon on my desk is the one we were saving for our first anniversary. The liquid dances the light. Maybe I am the fool. Maybe Michael's been right all along about women. At least he never pretends it's about love.