Chapter Five
Cara clutched the paper cup holding her coffee close as a breeze with a biting edge to it whipped her hair from her forehead. The view from the scenic overlook touted on a billboard outside of Marshall did not disappoint. The valley stretched below them like a patchwork quilt sewn from scraps of vibrant autumn colors. Red, orange and gold specimens shone bright against a backdrop of dark evergreens and leaves already dried to crisp golden brown.
“The cemetery where my mother’s grandparents are buried sits on top of a hill covered in these huge red maple trees,” she murmured when Wyatt approached. “Every fall, they turn the most incredible red-gold color I’ve ever seen. I bet it’s spectacular about now.”
“We can go there if you like. It’s not like we’ll have to hide out in your parents’ basement.”
“Good to hear,” she said. He half turned and flashed a wry smile. “Because they don’t have a basement. Nothing but a nasty old storm cellar filled with ancient canning jars and spiders.” She glanced back at the SUV where he’d been making and taking calls while she ruminated. “Anything new?”
“We have an IP address from where the email was sent. It gave us a trail to follow. There’s a forum user from Hot Springs we suspect may have been your, uh, passenger.”
Cara whirled to face him. She swiped at her hair ineffectually. “Is it so easy to find people?”
“If you know how and where to look. Special Agent Parker has a talent for tracking these things down. Probably because when she was younger, she used the same talent to cover her own tracks.”
“What do you mean?”
He smirked. “A member of our team was once a teenage hacker.”
“Like Tom.” The words slipped past her lips. She raised her hand to cover her mouth, but it was too late. She could tell by his expression he’d caught them. When he didn’t express any surprise or press her for additional information, her eyes narrowed. “Did you know?”
He shrugged. “It’s one of those open secret things. The truth is, a lot of people who go into programming or security started out trying to break into things. It’s not much different from kids who grow up to be mechanics or engineers taking stuff apart to see how it’s put back together again.”
“Except it’s illegal.”
“Right. But most don’t do anything truly harmful like hack into NORAD.”
She blinked twice. “Right,” she echoed. Then, shaking her head in disbelief, she turned back to the view. She cradled her coffee in the crook of her arm and pulled the cuffs of her sweater down over her hands. “So, they’re looking into this lead?”
He nodded. “She’ll call me as soon as they can get something solid.”
She drew on her bottom lip, biting down to quell the swirl of anxiety and anticipation pooling in her belly. Letting her gaze go soft and unfocused, she imagined pulling the lovely patchwork blanket of fall foliage up around her shoulders. The visualization helped a little but not enough. She needed to let Wyatt know what he was in for on this trip.
“You should know my parents and I have a...shaky relationship.”
She felt his glance but could tell by the shift in his posture he’d gone back to staring out over the vista. “Okay.”
“We don’t fight or anything,” she felt compelled to add, waving her coffee cup in a dismissive circle. “I’m an only child and let’s say we wanted different things—for me—and leave it there.”
“I understand.”
He shifted his weight, and Cara got the feeling he actually did.
“My dad wanted me to take over his insurance agency. They only had me and my older sister. Shelby went off to school at Ole Miss, met my brother-in-law there and never came home. When I was up at the U of A, I majored in computer science. I told my dad I could use everything I learned to bring the agency up to date, automate everything, you know...”
When he let the story trail off, she turned to face him again. “But you never went to work for him.”
Wyatt shook his head. “I met a guy who worked for the Department of Public Safety. They were recruiting on campus. Looking for people with tech skills to join the state police. I imagined myself as the guy who figured out who was sneaking around the dark web and what they were doing and stopped it all before things got too out of hand,” he said dryly.
“So you and Agent...Parker, was it?” He nodded. “You come at things from different angles.”
He shrugged, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jeans. “I suppose you can say we do. But we work well together. Balance each other out.”
“That’s nice. Balance is good.” She sighed. “I suppose we should get moving.” Turning on her heel, she walked off in the direction of the car. She settled her coffee into the cup holder and waited for Wyatt to join her.
He took another moment to drink in the view. Which gave her the same opportunity with him. He was tall by Hollywood standards, probably just over six foot. He was lean, but not skinny. The Henley he wore with his jeans showed off broad shoulders and toned arms, but he didn’t appear to be pumped up like a gym rat. All in all, he suited the scenery. Natural and unaffected.
He dropped into the seat with a soft “Oof,” and she jumped.
“Sorry,” she said, laughing at her own skittishness.
“No worries,” he assured her.
“I just need to take a breath,” she murmured. When she inhaled deeply, he did the same.
“Okay, now let it go,” he said, parroting the words she used so often in her meditations as he started the car. “Now breathe in. Breathe in LYYF.”
His eyes crinkled as he said the last bit, and a laugh burbled out of her. She reached over and gave his arm a friendly swat. “Don’t mock me.”
“Mock you?” he repeated through a laugh. “You? The guru? Never.”
They’d strapped into their seats when the phone she’d left in the console vibrated. Beside her, Wyatt tensed. They both eyed the device warily.
“Text message,” he grumbled, giving the notification the stink eye. “Know the number?”
She shrugged. “Not off the top of my head, but I don’t memorize many numbers anymore.”
“We’ve been forwarding all calls from unknown numbers to headquarters. You should only be getting messages from people who have the new number.”
“I gave it to Zarah. She may have passed it along to Tom or Chris,” she speculated.
He nodded, but neither of them reached for the phone despite another insistent buzz.
“I suppose you should check it,” he said at last.
A chill of apprehension ran down her spine as she leaned over to grab the phone. The screen sprang to life, and Cara sucked in a sharp breath when she saw the number in the little red circle. Seven. Someone had sent seven text messages to her phone. She opened the first.
856-784-4544: Have you missed us, Cara?
773-238-5795: Did you think we wouldn’t be able to tell you rerouted us?
413-648-7993: I don’t think she wants to talk to us anymore. I’m hurt.
630-721-9173: Hear she’s run away to Arkansas, of all places.
325-545-1899: Arkansas sounds...like Arkansas. I bet Cara has ditched her shoes, cut off her jeans, and is kissin’ a cousin right now.
213-566-5487: I can’t believe some hick from a flyover state thinks she can cash in on Chris and Tom’s genius because she slept with one or both of them back in the day. Where is Arkansas, anyway?
565-982-1167: You breathing LYYF in, Cara? Does the air taste better in Ar-Kansas?
“Oh, my God,” she whispered.
“What?” Wyatt leaned over to get a look at the screen.
“They’re texting this number,” she said, jerking her gaze up to meet his.
“What?”
“They know we were forwarding calls and messages,” she said, eyes wide. “They must have somehow traced the forwarding back to this number.”
The phone in her hand vibrated again, and she jerked so violently she squeezed it from her grip. Bobbling the device, she let out a gusty whoosh of breath when Wyatt caught and held it still in his steady hand. Then, Cara read the latest entry.
228-798-1163: It’s nice here, isn’t it, Cara. Warm days and cool nights. Isn’t sweater weather the best?
She began to shake. “Oh, no,” she murmured, shaking her head. It started out a slow denial but grew more adamant with each swing. “No. No. No. They can’t come here.” She turned pleading eyes on Wyatt, unable to hide behind a mask of cool any longer. “We can’t go to my parents’ house.”
“We’re going to your parents’ house,” he replied, pressing the button to power down the phone.
“But we can’t. I can’t.” Her voice grew sharper with agitation. “I can’t bring all this to their doorstep. They didn’t want me to be a part of this from the very start. I can’t show up with a passel of stalkers hot on my tail.”
“Understood,” he said in an annoyingly calm tone. “But there isn’t a passel of stalkers following you.”
“Didn’t you read what they said? It is sweater weather. They know where we are going.”
“They do not. Those texts were all sent through an autodialer. The phone numbers were too random. Someone may know you flew into Little Rock, and they may figure you know people here, but it doesn’t mean they know where you were heading.”
“They emailed my mother a ransom demand,” she practically shouted at him.
“Because they found someone with the name Beckett in your address book on an ancient email account,” he countered. “They got lucky.”
“No one gets that lucky,” she argued.
“Either way, it doesn’t matter. When I spoke to your mother, she said the first thing she did was pick up the phone and call her friend the lieutenant governor’s office. From a landline,” he added. “She didn’t reply to the email or forward it to anyone from her account.”
“Paul Stanton,” was all she could manage to mutter.
“Your mother didn’t do anything but open the message. They have no way of knowing they hit a bull’s-eye.”
He tossed the phone back into the console. Cara wanted to snatch it back and toss it out the window. But she knew she couldn’t. They would need every scrap of evidence they could gather.
He swiveled in his seat to look her straight in the eye. “All the sender could possibly know is someone opened it. They’re fishing, Cara,” he said, reaching over and wrapping his fingers around her forearm. “I wouldn’t take you anywhere near there if I didn’t believe we could keep you all safe.”
The gesture surprised her. From the moment they’d met, he’d kept a respectable distance between them. But this touch didn’t feel like a boundary crossed. The size of his hand was reassuring. The warmth of it, a balm. He held her gaze, sure and steady. And she believed him. He would do as he said. He’d keep her safe.
“Fishing,” she repeated.
“Or phishing, with a p-h , if you would,” he said with a self-deprecating smirk. “Don’t freak out, Cara. We’re on top of this, you have my word.”
“I don’t know you. Your word may not be good for much,” she muttered sourly.
One side of his mouth kicked up. “Let me put it this way. I value my career too much to take a celebrity who has been the victim of a crime, and has friends in high places, into a situation I believe to be dangerous to her or the people around her.”
She choked on a laugh. “Celebrity? Hardly. And my mother is the one with the friends in high places. I haven’t lived here since I was eighteen. I doubt I could pick the actual governor out of a lineup, much less the guy my mom went to the Marshall High prom with in 1978.”
“I guess we should consider you an unreliable witness, then,” he teased, reversing out of the parking spot. “For all we know, good old Uncle Paul Stanton might have been the one tryin’ to hitch a ride with you at the airport.”
“Ha ha.”
He glanced over at her before accelerating onto the highway again. “I wouldn’t put you or your parents in danger. I don’t want to be in danger,” he added with a laugh. “I know the title special agent sounds cool and all, but I’m a desk jockey. A computer nerd, remember?”
She huffed a laugh. “I’ve spent most of my adult life surrounded by computer nerds. Trust me, you carry the special agent thing off much better.”
His lips curved into a sly smile. “I think there may have been a compliment wrapped up in there somewhere.”
“Only an observation,” she disputed, willing herself not to blush. Focusing on the curving road winding its way down into the valley carved by the Buffalo National River, she steered the conversation back to the investigation. “Tell me what’s happening behind the scenes. Maybe I’ll feel better about everything if I know what’s going on behind the curtain.”
Wyatt nodded. “I get you.” He paused. His mouth puckered as he considered his words. “Okay, so we start with what we know. Someone has hacked into your accounts. They likely found their way in through one of your personal accounts rather than something attached to LYYF. Corporate security, particularly in tech firms, tends to be tight. Corporate espionage and so forth.”
“I think everyone at LYYF knows I’m not the one who will be swiping critical codes,” she said dryly.
“Perhaps not, but I’d wager most people inside and outside the company would assume you have access to critical information.”
He lifted his foot off the gas and signaled for the left turn onto AR-74. Leaving the highway behind, they crossed Bear Creek and headed deep into the rolling hills and lush valleys of Searcy County.
“I’m guessing it was through a social media platform. They tend to be the most vulnerable, and some barely even try to make it hard to cage user information. From there, they likely gained access to other platforms, and possibly your company accounts.” He paused for a moment, mulling something over. “Did you receive emails at your LYYF address as well as your personal accounts?”
“Yes, but they started with PicturSpam messages. I think you’re right, they messaged on various other accounts, including LYYF, before the emails started.”
“And I assume you were getting direct messages and emails long before they leaked your information and the texts started.”
“I wouldn’t say long before,” she hedged.
“In internet terms, long can mean hours or days,” he clarified. “Think wildfire speed.”
The Californian in her shuddered at the comparison, but she nodded. “Right. It was probably no more than a day or so. It seemed like everything happened at once.”
“I can take a good guess at what most of the messages said, but tell me someone said something to make you hop on a plane less than two weeks before your company goes public and you become a multimillionaire.”
Cara stared out at the scenery, wishing she could jump out and hide behind one of the huge round bales of hay dotting an autumn-browned pasture. Heck, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d leaped from a vehicle this week. But Wyatt was sailing down the county highway at a steady clip, and she knew there was no way she could outrun the madness infiltrating her life. The only way out would be through, she reminded herself sternly.
“It wasn’t what they said, it was what they did,” she said, unable to look directly at him.
“Okay,” he replied, the very soul of patience. “What did they do?”
“Well, let’s see...” Pausing to gulp down the fear clawing at her throat, she focused on her hands clasped in her lap. “There was the petty vandalism. Nasty words spray-painted on my garage door, crude graffiti on my driveway. I’ve gone through three mailboxes in two weeks. All this in addition to the barrage of written and verbal harassment.”
“Death threats?”
He asked the question as casually as if he was curious about her favorite color. So she answered in the same offhanded way. “Of course. Who gets doxed and doesn’t get their fair share of death threats?”
Wyatt cast a quelling look in her direction. “Any the police were particularly interested in?”
“I’d like to believe they found all of them interesting, but there were a couple with, uh, specifics.”
“You gonna tell me, or do I need to wait until the records we requested from California come through?”
She drew a deep breath, then let it out to the count of six. “One...person...said they liked my dog, and they’d be sure to take good care of it when I died.”
He glanced over at her, his brow knit. “Your dog? I thought you said you have a cat.”
“Half a cat,” she corrected. “JuJu is a time-share.”
“A stray you and the neighbor both feed,” he recalled.
“My neighbor had a dog, though. Has. She has a dog. They are both alive and well, thank God.”
Wyatt shifted in his seat, and she knew he was catching on, but she wasn’t quite ready to say more. Instead, she pointed to a large metal building ahead of them. “Go past the Bakers’ barn, you’ll want to take a right on County Road 36. The road is barely more than one lane, and Mr. Baker likes to make a point out of farm equipment having the right of way around here, so look out for cranky old men on tractors.”
“Got it.”
Wyatt flipped on the turn signal even though there was no other car in sight. Cara smiled. He must have been telling the truth about growing up in farm country. Only city dwellers waited until the last second to signal their intention to turn. Out in the country, one never knew who or what might be coming up behind or poking along around a bend.
The tires scrambled for purchase on the crumbling concrete roadbed. Cara was pleased to note he’d heeded her caution and accelerated at a sedate pace. He let a good mile or so pass before he asked, “What happened to your neighbor?”
“She was out walking her dog. A car pulled up and a guy jumped out and grabbed her. He had a knife,” she said, her words ending in a whisper.
“He stabbed her?”
Knowing he was watching her out of the corner of his eye, she simply nodded.
“But she wasn’t fatally wounded,” he confirmed.
“No.”
“And the dog wasn’t hurt.”
Cara couldn’t help but release a tense little laugh. He sounded so falsely encouraging it was ridiculous. She didn’t know Wyatt Dawson well at all, but she felt safe in assuming optimism didn’t come naturally to him. Why would it? He was a cop. He spent his days up to his elbows in all the worst things people did to one another.
“Buster is fine. Has a new little harness with LAPD printed on the back.” She nodded to a crossroad ahead of them. “Keep going, but our turn will be coming up on the left.”
“Got it. So Buster is an official K-9 officer now?”
“I wouldn’t say official, but he was tough enough to get one of the officers to say every department should train a pack of Pomeranians. They may not be able to take a bad guy down, but they can sure wake the neighborhood.” She pointed to a narrow driveway marked with three blue reflectors on their left. “Here we are. Home sweet home.”