37
Sheena
I called Cherished Hearts while I sat in gridlock traffic, on my way to the last bank in Kuna. Technically, I was still doing okay on time. If anything, I was ahead of schedule.
I suspected that the kidnappers had sent me out of town into the thick of commuter traffic intentionally, to keep me busy. But as the cars slowed to a crawl and then a dead halt, that knowledge didn ’ t stop the panic from making me breathe like I ’ d been running for my life. In a way, I was. If I lost my girls to this slowdown, I didn ’ t know how I ’ d go on.
I ’ d been inching along at five miles per hour for the last twenty minutes. I wouldn ’ t be exiting the freeway for at least another twenty.
The receptionist at Cherished Hearts picked up after the first ring. She must have had caller ID because she said, “ Mrs. Halverson, oh I ’ m so glad you called. Ron has been asking about you all day.”
Guilt—and the long stretch of red on my Maps app—made my stomach tighten painfully. “ I ’ m really sorry. It ’ s been … it ’ s been a hard day. I ’ m so sorry it took this long to check in.”
Do not cry, I instructed myself. Do not show up at this bank looking like a mess.
“ No, no, honey. That ’ s not what I meant,” she said, and the kindness in her voice nearly sent the tears over the edge. “ He ’ s in good hands. It ’ s good you called, that ’ s all. He ’ s feeling a little lost and lonely. That ’ s totally normal for his first day. Hold on a minute, okay?”
I tried to respond before she put me on hold to get Dad, but the lump in my throat wouldn ’ t let me.
“ Hi. ” When Dad came on the line a few minutes later, he didn ’ t sound lost and lonely. His voice had a hard, clipped edge to it, like I ’ d interrupted him in the middle of something.
“ It ’ s so good to hear your voice,” I floundered, no longer sure what I should say. What did he remember from last night? Should I apologize again? Explain my decision to take him to Cherished Hearts? I couldn ’ t say anything about the girls. That would make everything worse. But it was the whole reason I ’ d done this so suddenly.
A fresh wave of guilt—this one a tsunami—rolled over me so hard I had to swallow the bile rising up.
The semi-truck behind me laid on its horn and I jumped, realizing that traffic was moving again. “ Dad, do you remember when I was a little girl and you told me to trust you—and stay very, very still on that camping trip?”
It was a longshot question. However, I ’ d learned that sometimes those old memories were etched deep, in a way nothing else seemed to be.
I could still picture the orange-blue flicker of the coals in the fire ring, the way Dad ’ s eyes had gone wide as he glanced in my direction then barked at me not to move an inch. I wanted to whirl around and jump up from the rock I ’ d been sitting on. But his voice—and the way I trusted my father—rooted me right where I was.
“ Yes,” he muttered gruffly, and I smiled despite myself.
“ There was—” I began, but he cut me off and started telling the story himself.
“ There was a spider on your neck,” Dad said, his voice losing some of its edge. “ Knew it was a widow, because of those legs with that big old body. Must ’ ve been on the rock when you sat down. And you must ’ ve felt it crawling, because you had your hand up and moving toward it. If you started poking at it, it would ’ ve bit you.”
“ Yeah, I remember how it felt,” I said. “ I was so scared. But I trusted you. So I didn ’ t move, even though I wanted to panic.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. “ Yeah,” he finally said.
“ Before I knew it, you ’ d flicked it away with a branch. You didn ’ t even tell me what it was until we got home from the trip.”
“ Yeah,” he repeated again, his voice softer.
“ I need you to trust me, okay? Even though it feels bad and doesn ’ t make sense. I just need you to trust me. Because I love you and I ’ m coming back for you, okay? I—I ’ m trusting my gut, like you always told me to do. I ’ ll explain later, okay?”
He was quiet for so long I thought maybe he ’ d hung up. Then he said, “ Well, why didn ’ t you say that last night? I ’ ll stay put, Sheen. You know I love you, too. And the girls. Tell them hi from their papa.”
“ Thanks, Dad,” I choked out. “ I need to go, okay? I ’ ll see you really soon.”
* * *
As I drove away from the final bank fifteen minutes later, I glanced at my reflection in the rearview mirror.
I ’ d been expecting to see a haggard shell of a woman—like how I felt inside. To my surprise, the Sheena who looked back at me was pretty put-together. My eyeliner still tipped-out in subtle wings that I ’ d applied at 4:00 that morning, not wanting to give the bank any excuse to raise a red flag about my withdrawals. Foundation and powder hid the blotches I knew were lurking underneath on my dehydrated skin. Even my lipliner hadn ’ t smudged.
I cut my eyes back to the road and nudged the car five miles over the speed limit. Headed this direction, back toward Boise, the traffic was sparse, but I wasn ’ t willing to risk going any faster. Not when someone might be watching me. Not when I had barely over an hour to get home, organize the money in a backpack like I ’ d been instructed, and write a note pleading with the kidnappers to accept the shortfall.
I had, in the footwell of the passenger side of the car, a total of $44,243. It was $5,757 less than the kidnappers had requested, but even that sum felt like I was just asking for the police—and the feds—to perk up and start looking in my direction at any moment. The thought barely raised my heart rate, though. Nothing mattered anymore except saving my girls.
I glanced in the rearview mirror again as I finally exited the main freeway and pulled into traffic along State Street and pointed the car toward home, this time scanning for police.
I was so close.
I ’ d successfully made withdrawals at all five banks. As soon as I got through Boise and passed out of city limits, I would be headed straight for Little Eddy Campground. After that, the only thing left on the kidnappers’ list of demands would be the two-million-dollar Bitcoin transfer—which would definitely alert the authorities.
What if they don ’ t give the kids back? the voice in the back of my head piped up as I imagined dropping the money and walking away.
That voice had been getting louder with each successful bank withdrawal, each minute that ticked closer and closer toward the ransom drop.
I gripped the steering wheel harder, heart beating so fast I was afraid I might have to pull over.
What if they ’ re already dead? asked the voice that I knew was my own but felt like a stranger ’ s. These are bad people. They don ’ t keep their promises.
“ But there ’ s still a chance,” I cried out loud, blinking away the tears that finally spilled down my cheeks and finally smudged the carefully applied eyeliner.
I had no idea where my girls were, or even if they were still alive. All I knew was that as long as there was a sliver of hope I could get them back, a chance they were still okay, I ’ d move heaven and earth to make it happen.
Ping.
I glanced at my phone long enough to clock that the text update included the words kidnapping and person of interest were part of the headline.
I pulled the car over to the shoulder of the road so fast without signaling that a truck to my right laid on the horn as I put on my hazards and grabbed my phone.
The headline read, “ Police Name Person of Interest in Daycare Kidnapping.”
My mouth went dry as I scrambled to click on the article. Did this mean the police were closing in on a suspect? Was there a chance I might not have to pull off this insane ransom on my own?
When the article opened, I shook my head in confusion. The photo beneath the headline showed the mug shot of a skinny woman with dark circles beneath her brown eyes. She couldn ’ t be much older than me, and it looked like she ’ d been crying in the photo.
I scrolled down, desperate to read as fast as possible, but unwilling to skip a single word.
In a shocking development, authorities have named 38-year-old Jessa Landon as a person of interest in the case involving ten children kidnapped while enroute to Bright Beginnings Rec center for after-school care. The children, aged between 7 and 11, were last seen boarding the bus at their elementary school on Thursday afternoon but never arrived at the daycare center.
Jessa Landon, who had been working under her maiden name, Jessa Palmer, is now at the center of an intense investigation. Gregg Landon of Herriman, Utah, her ex-brother-in-law, has come forward with alarming information about her past, revealing that Jessa recently served three years in jail for voluntary manslaughter after killing her husband. Following her conviction, Ms. Landon lost custody of her daughter.
“ When I saw the articles about the kidnapping and read her name, I got this huge pit in my stomach,” Gregg said in a statement recorded this afternoon. “ I thought, ‘ My God, what has Jessa done now?’ I ’ ve seen firsthand what that woman is capable of. She ’ s a master manipulator. Not someone who should be anywhere near children.”
Bright Beginnings released a statement expressing their concern and disbelief. “ We are horrified to learn that Jessa Landon intentionally misled us by using her maiden name and used her sister’s address on her application. This deception allowed her to bypass our background check process. Our primary concern continues to be the safe return of the children.”
As the search for the missing children continues, authorities are urging anyone with information to come forward. Law enforcement officials have stated that this news article will be updated as new information becomes available. “ We are doing everything in our power to locate these children and ensure their safe return,” said a police spokesperson. “ Our thoughts are with the families during this incredibly difficult time.”
When I finished the last sentence, I forced myself to put the phone back onto the dash mount and pull back into traffic.
I couldn ’ t stop shaking, though.
That woman ’ s face stared back at me from my mind ’ s eye while bits and pieces of the article swirled through my head.
Voluntary manslaughter.
Master manipulator.
Lost custody.
For the first time, an undercurrent of anger rippled through my fear. Was this the person who had written the ransom note that had showed up on my doorstep with that pizza? She was apparently capable of heinous things. She ’ d killed her own husband—and lost custody of her daughter.
I didn ’ t want to admit it, even to myself, but there was also the strangest bit of relief that my children might be with a mother. Even horrible people still loved their children sometimes, right? Surely, someone who had gone through the blood, sweat, and pain that even the most cursory kind of motherhood involved couldn ’ t be completely devoid of empathy, could they?
I refused to remember the stories Dad had told me about exactly that kind of mother. Women who locked their children in the closet for days, fed their babies dog food, drowned their toddlers in the bathtub.
Surely there weren ’ t many of these women, but I knew for a fact they existed.
I blinked away the horrifying thought and stared into the tear-filled eyes in the pixelated photo on my screen.
Were those tears of hate, selfishness, deceit?
Or was that a little bit of her soul bubbling to the surface? If so, maybe, just maybe, this woman would be willing to keep her word and return my children to me if I followed her instructions to the letter.
My phone screen lit up with an incoming call—saved to my phone earlier as simply POLICE.
I shoved the phone away unanswered, then pulled back onto the road and nudged the gas pedal to bring the car up to seven miles over the speed limit, my blood boiling hot and heart pounding hard against my ribcage.
“ Fuck you, Jessa Landon,” I choked out, even while I silently begged her not to hurt my girls.