Page 112 of The Catalyst

“Twenty-four.”

My mind circles the numbers.

Nigel’s mom ran off with Aimee when he was seven, which meant Aimee was only thirteen, and Oliver was seventeen at the time.

She was just a kid. No wonder Oliver was against the idea of him and Aimee. He watched her grow from a baby to a toddler to a child, and she was just starting to become a teenager when she was snatched in the middle of the night. I don’t blame him for being against the arrangement, but something is still missing from the puzzle.

What did Oliver do to Aimee all those years ago that scarred her so badly? Knowing Oliver, I could imagine the heinous things, but she was a kid. Oliver’s morals are askew, but he has a soft spot for kids. His protection of them goes above and beyond the call of duty.

Oliver told me before that he’s never broken the rules.

As Nigel turns onto Telge Road, a street that connects the highway to Main Street in Grove Hill, I spot a flash of navy blue in the La Quinta parking lot.

“Turn in there!” I couldn’t be sure what the flash of color came from, but my gut spoke for me.

Nigel turns into the parking lot.

“Go around the back,” I demand, and Nigel follows my instructions, rounding the building until the navy blue sedan comes into view, parked beside the dumpster.

She was trying to hide the car. She parked in the one spot that wouldn’t be easily spotted from the street, and yet I got a small glimpse—just a flash of color.

She doesn’t want to be found.

“There! That’s it!” Nigel hadn’t fully parked before I jumped out of the truck and ran to Aimee’s car. Gripping the handle of the door, the car opens up, completely unlocked, and I look around inside, needing to find something as definitive proof that this is the car Aimee showed up in.

Yanking on the armrest, it separates and reveals a small stack of papers and a feminine wallet. I flip open the wallet and find her driver’s license.

O’Reilly, Aimee Rae

11/17/1977

1522 Falcon Ridge Drive

Hempstead, TX, 77445

A chill runs through my bones. That can’t be a coincidence, can it? That’s why I thought I’d seen her before. We lived in the same town for eleven years.

I could’ve crossed paths with her when I went back. Maybe she was at the diner or the store.

“What did you find?” Nigel asks as I move out of the car, still holding the stack of papers and her wallet.

“I thought she looked familiar. It just didn’t click,” I explain as I look up at him. “She was in Hempstead.” I hand him her license, and he looks down at it, tension covering his face.

“Isn’t Hempstead where you were hiding out?” he asks before looking up at me.

“Yeah, I was born and raised there, but it doesn’t make sense. That address…it’s my mom’s old church. People don’t live there.”

His gaze moves far off, deep in his head. “It’s a fake address. Something smells rotten.”

People don’t just put false addresses on their license unless there’s a reason they don’t want to be found.

Nigel pulls out the license and inspects it before saying, “It’s a real I.D.” He shoves it back in its slot as I look at the documents.

“It’s a rental from Austin. She got it this morning.”

This makes no sense. If she came from Hempstead, why would she rent a car out of Austin instead of Houston or Grove Hill?

Then, it clicks.

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