Page 31 of Script Swap
The return address was the Swetz Household in Lake Oswego, which I figured was either Kyson’s parents or grandparents.When I opened the letter, it was—well, it was from the dragon mom.It was full of phrases likeyou deserve more than this, andI know you can be whatever you set your mind to, andI expect you to reach your full potential.(Egad,thatis a terrifying phrase.) The overall impression was: you’d better start making money quickly, or you’re dead to me.No, mommy dearest didn’t actually spell it out in those words, but the message came through loud and clear.The final line was,Remember where you come from.From somebody else, that might have been a reassurance.Here, it sounded more like a threat.
(And I thought my parents were messed up.)
Enclosed with the letter was a photo of a younger Kyson holding an award.It was a crystal obelisk on top of a black wooden base.A quick glance at the desk confirmed the award wasn’t there, but after another look at the photo, I thought I’d seen the base in Kyson’s dressing room.So, where was the crystal obelisk?
The mystery writer in me had an idea about that.
My gaze moved to take in Kyson.He stood against a backdrop of blue curtains, and he was smiling.He must have been seventeen or eighteen, his features still not fully developed, painfully thin.It was weird to see, even at that age, the resemblance between us.
That was when the mystery writer in me wondered if maybe someone had been trying to kill me and gotten Kyson by mistake.
It only lasted about two seconds.Then, unbidden, the vision came to me of sharing my theory with Fox and Keme, and the two of them providing feedback likeYou wish you looked like himandYou’re almost thirty.
Okay, so, probably not a case of murder-by-mistaken-identity.
I was sifting through the mail when another photo slipped out.It flipped over, slid toward the edge of the desk, and would have tumbled to the floor (and out of reach), but I snagged it at the last moment.
The woman had rust-colored curls and, in what I considered a rather bold choice, a bralette and lacy underwear in the exact same shade.There was alotof creamy skin exposed.And a lot of, uh, assets.The old-fashioned term that a sexist, jaded PI might have used waspneumatic.
It was unmistakably Jonni.And ithadto be photoshopped, right?
On the back, in curly script, were the words:I’ll wait for you, lover.
Double egad.If there’s anything more upsetting thanlive up to your potential,it’s the wordlover.
Time had to be running out, so I grabbed the iPad next.I tried a couple of the most common passwords, but they didn’t work.I dug out my phone to inspect Kyson’s Instagram—great way to find somebody’s birthday, by the way.I found his account and started scrolling, looking for a picture that would suggest a birthday celebration.But when I found his birthday and tried the date in various orders—month, day, year; month, day; only year; year, month, day; etc.
Nothing.
Maybe there was something else.The day he won one of the awards.I went back to scrolling—he took alotof headshots—when words floated up to me from my subconscious.
Remember where you come from.
It couldn’t be that easy, could it?
I checked the return address on the letter from Dragon Mommy.
Six digits.
I put them in.
The lock screen disappeared, and I found myself staring at Kyson’s tablet.I checked his email first, but a quick search didn’t show me anything unusual—he was on the mailing lists for so many underwear companies that it bordered on homosexual—and then his messages—he and mommy chatted alot.Nothing, though, that would explain why someone would have wanted to kill Kyson.
I opened his photos.
“What are you doing?”Bobby asked.
I looked up, but I didn’t hear the question.
“Dash, come on,” he said.“You know how important chain-of-custody is—”
“Look at this.”
Bobby was about to reply, but he stopped when I turned the iPad to face him.
The screen was full of pictures of a man—head down, something tucked under his arm, as he crossed a darkened parking lot.The way he held himself across the series of pictures suggested unadulterated sneakery and someone who was, without a doubt, up to no good.A bulky fur coat.An enormous black bag that was probably called a satchel but looked like a purse.Boots thatdefinitelyhad heels.
And the man was, without a doubt, Terrence.
