Page 25 of Fallen Stars

FIVE

LEVI

In times like this,I wish I wasn’t so good at my job.

Since Tymber handed over the Messer file weeks ago, I’ve been neck-deep in research. I sifted through the national missing persons database for any information they had on Sydney Messer. Then I filtered the database for other recent missing persons in the Northwest under age eighteen. As of Monday, the four cities I’m focusing on—Seattle, Tacoma, Olympia, and Portland—have reported more than a hundred missing persons in the past sixty days.

To some, an average of twenty-five missing minors in each city isn’t high. They might argue that thousands of children go missing every year.

But this is different.

The hundred-plus faces I’ve burned into my brain aren’t toddlers lost in a store. They aren’t delinquent children mad at their parents who pack a bag and run away. Each of the missing persons is between twelve and seventeen years old. Majority of them were out with others their age, then abducted once alone.

Last week, in coordination with James Messer, Tymber and I set up a website for people to submit information, anonymous or not. Though Sydney Messer is who we are being paid to locate,the website has images, names, and minimal details of the other children reported missing.

Every morning, when I check the submission log, there are no less than twenty new entries. Some submissions contain repetitive information. But at least once a day, we get new intelligence. Minor yet major clues such as height or hair color or someone struggling near a specific location. Each new piece is added to the ever-expanding file and compared to other tips submitted.

But as the hours have dragged on with no significant leads, as desperation to find these children has eaten away at my soul, I’ve started digging in the darkest pits of hell.

Accessing the dark web is no easy feat. It takes specific programs. You need to be friendly with people that lurk in those grotesque, shadowed places. Worst of all, you have to pretend to be one of them. Dive into this deplorable mindset. Speak their language without hesitation.

Needless to say, I haven’t eaten much in the past couple of weeks. And most of what I’ve eaten hasn’t stayed down. I wish I could say it’s strictly the morbid images and vile conversations I’ve seen online that have me vomiting once or more a day. But it’s not the only reason.

As promised, I’ve given Oliver space. Let him do his thing while I do mine.

But it’s been twelve fucking miserable days since the day in his garage. Since I told him about mybrilliantidea to fake date Abigail. Since I wanted to take his face in my hands, press my lips to his, and show him where my heart really lies. Where it has been for several years.

Other than work, my focus has been shit. If anything, since Oliver and I entered limbo, all I do is work. Sleep is a joke. Keeping up pretenses with Tymber, my parents, and Abigail is a challenge.

I fucking hate it.

A ping echoes through the room and I shift my attention to the top right screen. Rows of code fill the screen and I scan each line. Hunt for the smallest of clues.

“What is that?”

I inch closer to the screen and narrow my eyes. Scan a section of code again and again. Lose focus as I read the jumbled, nonsensical words for the fifth time.

“A code within the code,” I mutter then laugh. “Smart, sick motherfuckers.”

Anyone with expansive coding knowledge should pick up on it. See the intricate details sprinkled throughout several lines. On an actual site, they’d be Easter eggs hidden in images or random text. Something these sadistic bastards would know how to find.

But not everyone in government offices has programming expertise or the right brainpower to decipher these hidden messages. The front end of missing persons is your average investigator. A person with a badge and ambition.

I screenshot the lines and add them to the file. Then, I spend the next hour decoding it. And when I finally have what I believe is the clue, I question if I got it right:golden wings overhead.

“What the hell does that mean?”

I stare at the words until my eyes cross and my mind warps. A riddle within deciphered code. A phrase that sends a message to all who land on this page. But what the hell is the message?

Sifting through my memory bank, I search for yellow or golden-colored birds and their names. When I hit a dead end, I scan the web. Nothing makes sense.

“Maybe it’s not a bird…”

My phone vibrates on the desk and I glance at the screen to see a text alert. Hope soars in my chest that Oliver is breaking the silence.

Ignoring work, I swipe up my phone and see the message is from Abigail. Instantly, I deflate.

Should I be the one to reach out first? Or would I upset him for overstepping?

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