Page 82 of The Challenger

When I finish my story, her stricken expression makes me second-guess my decision to tell her.

“Oh my God," she says. "How awful for you. And Chavez was dragged into it as well. Has this stalker ever mentioned Ava?”

“No,” I say. “But there is a connection. I know it."

“And this Brandon fellow can help?”

“Hopefully."

She leans back, and there is something going on there, behind those eyes. “Now that I think about it, she did mention a place called Shaniko. A nothing town, thirty or forty miles north of Madras. Abandoned, I believe. I doubt anyone lives there full time."

The grandfather clock in the hall chimes midnight, triggering dual yawns. Both of us are tired from the long day. “We should get to bed,” I say. “I want to be fresh for Dad tomorrow.”

Cori gets up slowly from the loveseat. “I left towels in your bathroom.”

I smile, gathering both of our mugs. “It hasn’t been mine for years.”

Cori lays a hand on my cheek, her eyes soft. She still smells like baby oil, the cheap and cheerful moisturizer she always preferred.

“It will always be yours, Flynn."

And little tremors erupt around my heart, shattering it ever so gently.

* * *

A chill creepingthrough the bedroom window in the morning wakes me from a deep sleep. I forgot to shut the blinds last night, but the wall of heavy fog blocks daylight like God draped her own curtains. Only my cell phone screen shines bright in the dim, still lying beside me in bed after a late-night FaceTime session with Chavez. Stacked on the screen are two unread texts.

CD: I love you.

BD: Call me. Urgent.

I sit up so quickly all the blood rushes to my head. Like everyone else, I don’t expect a miracle to happen on a Saturday morning, but maybe my luck is changing.

Brandon answers on the first ring. “Morning,” he says.

“Good news?” I ask. There is no time for small talk, sorry.

“Yes,” he says, “and I wanted to clarify what my friend could and could not provide. At this stage, he was willing to share an email address and a name. Off the record, he did confirm the name on the credit card used to set up the account is the same name I am sending you. You didn’t hear any of this from me.”

I shut my eyes, dizzy with relief. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise. But what about the ITIA? Have they tried to reach this person?”

“I’m sorry, Flynn,” he says. “Those are the only details I can share.”

“Yeah, of course, I understand. And you’ve already gone above and beyond.”

After a pregnant pause, Brandon clears his throat. “If you don’t mind me asking, how is it looking on his end?”

“They found nothing incriminating on his phone or laptop, but they are still dragging their heels and not officially absolving him."

“This is a highly unusual situation,” he says, telling me nothing new. “They have to cross the T’s and all that jazz. I’ll send you what I have, and hope it helps. Good luck.”

A physical ache seems to flow through me, starting in my neck and radiating to my chest. I have a strong premonition that whatever Brandon is about to send is the missing piece of the puzzle. When the text comes in, my heart beats wildly. My stalker is no longer nameless.

But what a name.

Jerry Linkley.

Better suited to a Baptist preacher or a used car salesman than a loser who fancies himself a criminal mastermind. A year's worth of aggravation shimmers under my skin as I type his name into the browser and hit search. Other than a Facebook account with no activity or photos, nothing else comes up under that name.

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