Page 82 of Swept for Forever
Maybe I wouldn’t find anything new, but sometimes a change of scenery could shake something loose. I was clinging to that hope. Hell, I’d crossed county lines for it.
It wasn’t a waste of time.
Because I needed to feel the place. The air, the rhythm of it. Maybe that’s what would break it open. My instincts worked better when my boots were on the ground.
The AC ticked low as I pulled up the same searches I’d tried before.
Autumn Jones. Female. Early-twenties. Cheyenne, Wyoming.
No license. No known relatives. She’d once called her mom on my phone if she’d told the truth. The number had vanished from the call log before I even thought to save it, so even back then, she’d been careful.
The only number I had for her was the prepaid burner I’d picked up from a gas station outside Buffaloberry Hill. No trace, no contract, no hope.
I searched her name across every social platform, forum, and group network I could access. I was slower this time. Just in case I’d skimmed past something last night, with sleep dragging at my focus.
I narrowed parameters, adjusted filters, and changed location tags. I even broadened the net, checking for first nameonly, potential nicknames, and usernames that might’ve been hers.
A few came close enough to fool the algorithm, but I knew her face like a man memorizes the stars that guided him home. That heart-shaped softness and those clear, clever eyes that stared straight past the years I spent looking away. A face that didn’t beg for attention but rather challenged me to look deeper. None of these girls was her.
So I hadn’t missed anything after all.
There were no photos of her, no comments, and no posts. Not even birthday mentions and friend tags. General searches were useless. Her name might as well have been wallpaper.
Still, I kept going.
This time, I dug into local utility and lease records for Cheyenne. I used to fly through these back when I was in court five days a week, cross-referencing tenant data and pulling bills from city systems like it was muscle memory. Now, I fumbled a little. Lagging. But still thorough.
People with roots left trails—bills, rent receipts. But someone her age? It was harder. So I wasn’t surprised when Cheyenne came up empty. No water. No gas. No electric. No rent. No proof that a key had ever turned for her here.
Grasping now, I logged intoWhitepages. It was useless, maybe, but I wasn’t ready to stop.
There were a few hits for “Jones.” I’d have to try because there was a strong possibility she might still be living with her mother.
The first house belonged to a nurse who hadn’t swum a lap in her life. She looked at me like I’d asked whether she believed in mermaids. The second was a guy with a Saint Bernard and a restraining order against his ex. He cracked the door but didn’t take the chain off. Then there was a womanwho’d just renamed herself Autumn after falling in love with a fae prince in a fantasy novel.
No one had heard ofmyAutumn Jones.
The last place was all porch light and cinnamon. An older woman opened the door and smiled at me.
“Oh, honey,” she said, “come in. You look like you need something more than directions.”
She offered me sweet tea and handed me a flyer for Tuesday’s Women’s Circle. I thanked her, declined, and walked away with her gentle concern tucked tight between my ribs.
Back in the truck, the cab felt tighter. It was not hot, just wrong.
Tracking people used to be easier. You could follow the trail of check-ins, public friend lists, and even pet accounts.
But this new generation seemed to have been raised in a world that taught them not to overshare. Or worse, how to vanish without leaving so much as a fingerprint.
And Autumn? She didn’t just disappear.
She’d left a lie in her place.
And I, stupid, trusting, and slow to learn, had taken it like a fucking gift.
She’d made up Cheyenne. God help me, I prayed she hadn’t lied about her name.
If she had, if “Autumn Jones” was just another carefully placed misdirection, I didn’t know what I’d do. Our connection had been real. I wasn’t delusional, and unless she was a world-class psychopath, no one could fake that kind of closeness for so long.
