Page 47 of High Frequency

When I click on it, another online folder appears, this one is titled “northeast corner.” Inside is another video file for the same time period, which looks to be of the outside. This camera has both the gas pumps and the front of the convenience store in view, as well as the two car-wash bays. At this angle, I can even see a part of the side street.

Before I can hit start though, Aspen makes herself known. She had another restless night, had developed a fever, and at Pippa’s suggestion, I ended up giving her some medication, which seemed to help. She was fine earlier this morning, has been taking her bottle just fine, and went down for her morning nap without issue, but that didn’t last too long. She’s only been down for forty-five minutes.

“Hey, sweet girl,” I coo, approaching the crib.

Yeah, her cries sound like she’s in pain. Even when I pick her up—which would normally settle her down some—she continues to cry.

It’s funny, I can barely remember who I was before I became a mother, and yet I still feel so new at this at times. I try rocking her for a bit, bouncing her on my shoulder as I walk around our bedroom, but to no avail. Her little head feels warm against mine.

“Let’s get you a clean diaper first, okay?” I suggest.

Maybe I can check her temperature while I do that.

I grab what I need from the dresser and put her down on the bed. She doesn’t like that and lets me know. I’m not sure what happened to my sweet, happy child.

“Awww, poor kiddo,” Pippa commiserates as she slips into the room, waving the bottle of infant Tylenol and one of the frozen teething rings.

“Good call,” I tell her. “I think her fever is back.”

“She can have a dose every four to six hours, it’s been over eight.”

While I struggle with Aspen’s flailing limbs, trying to get a clean diaper on her, Pippa gives her another dose of Tylenol.

“Were you trying to work?” she asks, eyeing the laptop I left open on the bed.

I nod, close the last snap on Aspen’s romper, pick her up, and shove my face in her little neck as tears burn. My God, maybe it’s just lack of sleep, but I feel so damn overwhelmed. Single parenthood, moving here, a new job, teething, demanding case, and tomorrow moving again.

I thought I’d be able to do this, but right now—Aspen’s woeful cries muffled against me—I feel like an utter failure.

“All right, then.” Pippa plucks the baby from my hands and bounces her on her shoulder. “Go splash some water on your face, grab your laptop, and go work in Sully’s office. He’s taking the girls to the ranch for a ride.” Then she presses a kiss to my baby’s downy head. “I’ve got this little one.”

The mirror in the bathroom shows my pitiful state. Swollen, red eyes, tear streaks down my face, my hair sticking out every which way. I’m a fucking mess. Instead of splashing water, I shove my whole head under the faucet.

When I walk into the bedroom a few minutes later, it’s empty. Pippa must’ve taken Aspen downstairs. I feel an immediate surge of guilt. What kind of mother leaves her sick child for someone else to deal with?

Then I catch sight of my laptop, and am reminded there is a mother in Pablo who may just have found out the daughter she’s been looking for is likely no longer alive, or Chelsea’s mom, who to this day doesn’t know what her daughter endured and how she ended up clinging to a cliff, a hundred or so miles away from home.

My child is taken care of, she’s loved and safe. Those mothers don’t have that luxury, which is why I have to at least find them answers.

Grabbing my laptop, I head downstairs and duck into my uncle’s office.

Ten minutes later, I’m watching the outside security feed from the gas station on the large screen of his iMac. Sully’s twenty-seven inches is loads better than my measly fourteen-inch screen.

Reviewing this feed is much slower going because I can’t fast forward. In fact, I have to stop and rewind regularly. There is more happening on the screen; vehicles pulling in and out, people pumping gas, pedestrians walking by, and you can even see part of the street Nita would have walked down to get to the store.

I’m writing notes as I go, jotting down little things that stand out and time stamps I want to revisit. It’s not until my second run-through something jumps out at me at the seven thirty-four time stamp.

There’s an entrance/exit into the gas station from US-93, and a second entrance/exit around the corner on 2nd Street North, the street Nita would probably have walked down. Most vehicles seem to come in off the highway, and exit the same way. Only a few seem to use the one around the corner.

At seven twenty-nine, a delivery truck turns into the Exxon off the highway and pulls up to the second pump closest to the road. I can see the driver, wearing a dark-colored ball cap, get out, but then lose sight of him as he presumably fills his tank.

Then at seven thirty-four, he gets back in his truck, but instead of looping around to get back onto the highway—like most do—he goes the other way. He passes the front of the car wash, and parks his truck around the far corner, parallel to the side street Nita would be coming down at about that time.

The next thing I see is the driver walking back around to the front of the building and entering the convenience store.

As soon as he disappears inside, I pause the video and open a second window. Then I pull up the feed from inside the store again and fast forward to where I can see him coming in. He walks to the cooler and appears to grab a few drinks before approaching the counter.

Now I can see his ball cap is green and he’s wearing what looks like a dark navy padded jacket, but I can’t really make out his face. I only see the bottom half, he’s keeping the bill of his cap low, and from this angle, it obscures his eyes and nose.

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