19
Sheena
When Dad and I finally pulled into the driveway and I hit the garage remote, my bleary eyes nearly scanned right past the pizza box sitting on the porch. If it hadn ’ t been for the curvy red Speedwagon ’ s logo on the side of the pale gray box that blended in with the long shadows on the cement, I would have.
Dread and gratitude yanked a tug-of-war in my chest. I hadn ’ t ordered pizza, which meant that somebody had sent it to us. Was it a wrong address? Or had someone heard about what happened at Bright Beginnings and sent a mercy dinner? Who, though?
I wasn ’ t sure my coworkers even realized I had kids. I certainly didn ’ t know anything about their families. The job had been fully remote since the pandemic, which meant that aside from the occasional Zoom meeting, we didn ’ t know much about each other. For the most part, I was just their middle-aged coworker named Sheena who knew how to wrangle Excel spreadsheets and kept her microphone on mute and used a Hawaii-themed video background that blocked out the mess in her office. Sometimes, I didn ’ t even have that. Dad wandered in so often, his confused expression suddenly parting the palm trees on my Zoom background, that I ’ d started turning my video camera off most of the time, too.
The instant I parked the car in the garage, Dad hefted himself out of the passenger seat, slammed the car door, and stomped into the house without a backward glance.
His abrupt lecture about my divorce had withered into stony silence, either because I wasn ’ t playing along or because he ’ d lost the thread of it. But there was no doubt he was still at a boiling point, even if he didn ’ t know why.
I slumped back in my seat in a daze.
A ping on my phone jolted me back to attention. A new voicemail.
I scrambled to grab it from the car holster. Was it the police? The daycare center? How had I missed a call? My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped the phone twice as I tried to navigate to the voicemail.
The garage door growled shut, plunging me into darkness while I sat shaking in the driver ’ s seat, waiting for the message from an unknown number to begin playing.
“ Hi, Sheena, this is Debbie from Cherished Hearts Memory Care—”
I slowly set the phone down without listening to the rest of the message, then stared at the barely visible outlines of seldom used lawn equipment and dried-up paint buckets on the shelf in front of me.
For a few seconds, I refused to draw in a new breath, just exhaled and exhaled and exhaled until it felt like my lungs might collapse into the jagged hole in my chest.
Part of my brain still stubbornly refused to accept the situation with the girls or Dad. This couldn ’ t be happening. I couldn ’ t do this. My head buzzed like it was filled with trapped bees, angry and desperate for a way out.
Like every parent I knew, I was familiar with the dizzy head-rush of losing a child for a few minutes on the playground or at a grocery store. That intense, blind panic you could barely tolerate. The terror. The feeling of time standing still. The dread that something truly awful had happened in the five seconds you turned your back.
That combination of feelings hurt so bad you didn ’ t think you could endure it without collapsing under the pressure. I ’ d never tried to imagine what it would be like if I was forced to live in that state for longer than a few seconds.
It was worse than I could ’ ve dreamed.
A banging sound from inside the house cut through the buzzing bees in my brain.
I couldn ’ t leave Dad alone in there. I couldn ’ t shut down, no matter how badly I wanted to.
Before I opened the driver ’ s side door and went inside the house, I reached behind me and grabbed the two tangled sweatshirts lying on the backseat.
One was Bonnie ’ s, a stained pink My Little Pony fleece with too-long sleeves. The other was Sage ’ s, a plain red hoodie. For all the times they insisted they wouldn ’ t get cold at the park, then shivered.
I hugged Bonnie ’ s pilled fleece hard against my face, pressing it against my mouth. Then I screamed.
When I ran out of air, I drew in a shuddering breath. I didn ’ t feel better, but it made the frantic bees settle down just enough that I could get myself out of the car and inside the house.
Karen the cat met me at the door, chirping a greeting and winding through my legs with delighted meows.
“ Dad, are you hungry? There ’ s pizza, ” I called robotically, walking the few steps to the front door to retrieve the box. My stomach recoiled at the idea of food even as it rumbled at the same time. I would try to eat, even if I didn ’ t want to. I ’ d half-assed lunch, trying to finish the surplus budget in time before pickup, and Dad had skipped it altogether. His anti-psychotics, which he took in the mornings, meant he wasn ’ t hungry until evening most days. We were both running on fumes by then.
“ Dad? ” I called again as Karen flung herself onto the floor and purred harder, wriggling with her white-tipped paws in the air.
I opened the front door and bent to pick up the pizza box, peeking inside. The pepperoni pizza was still warm, but the cheese was starting to cool on top, grease congealing into tiny hard puddles instead of glossy drips.
When I shut the box, I noticed that there was an envelope taped to the top, right in the center. I tore it off as I carried the pizza to the kitchen table, hoping the note would tell me who I could thank for our dinner.
“ Dad, come eat, please?” I called down the hall. “ It ’ s pepperoni. Someone sent it to us.”
There were two sheets of paper inside the envelope. Typed. A long note.
The bees still circling in my head went silent, stunned, as soon as I read the greeting.
Sheena Halverson, this will be your only warning: Do NOT contact the police. Do NOT contact the FBI. Your every movement is being watched.
Read this note and its instructions very carefully. Bonnie and Sage are depending on it.
My phone pinged. I ignored it. It pinged again. I forced my eyes to focus back on the instructions on the note and read every word.
If you do what we ask, your girls will come home to you. So will the other kids. They are alive and well—for now. But their fate is in YOUR hands. Any attempts to contact police or deviate from our demands will result in swift and merciless consequences.
Don ’ t play games with us. And we won ’ t play games with you. If you want to see your daughters again, you will withdraw a total of $50,000 in cash, in separate transactions from five banks in the Treasure Valley. These withdrawals will be made from the Boise City bond funds. If questioned, you will respond that this money is for a down payment on the new buses for Northridge Elementary. Exact amounts and bank names are listed below on page 2.
You will bring the cash, in a backpack, to the Bull Creek trailhead at Little Eddy campground at exactly 7:00 p.m. on Saturday, August 27. You will come alone.
I stopped reading to stare at the page. That was tomorrow.
Leave the backpack under the trailhead sign. Don ’ t talk to ANYONE. Don ’ t hang around the campground.
Then drive away. We will not retrieve the money until you leave.
After the cash drop-off, you will return home and transfer the remaining bond funds—two million dollars—into a Bitcoin wallet using the steps listed on page 2. Wait for instructions. We will be watching. Once we have confirmed the Bitcoin transfer, we will release the children to you.
Do not attempt to trace this communication. Do NOT contact authorities. Do NOT speak with other parents. Do not tell ANYONE about this note.
Follow these instructions TO THE LETTER.
We sincerely hope you succeed.
I let the first page of the note fall to the floor. As promised, the second page was a list of detailed instructions for which banks to visit, which amounts of cash to withdraw, even where to park at the trailhead.
My heart drummed so hard, the words on the white paper swam in front of my eyes like static on an old TV. This couldn ’ t be happening. None of it.
I ’ d barely finished scanning it when a commotion from the front of the house made my head snap up.
Someone was screaming.