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Kat
September
“Were you able to connect with Phillip Montgomery, or his sister Renata?” I ask Scott as he arrives home after work.
“You need to take a break,” he says, kissing the top of my head.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m fine.”
He rolls his eyes. “You’re going to burn out.” He stands behind me and rubs my shoulders. “I think you need to give it some space. Let us run the investigation, and I promise, if anything turns up, you’ll be the first to know.”
His fingers knead the tight muscles in my neck, but I pull away. “And do what?” I ask. “Wait for her to open up another credit card in my name? Run up more debt?”
Scott pulls his office chair over and sits, turning me away from my notes. “You’re not eating, not sleeping. All I’m suggesting is that you take a break—a day, a week—to clear your head. Work on something else, then come back with fresh eyes. You know better than anyone that sometimes patience and time are the only things that will crack a story.”
“I have a $30,000 debt. I don’t have the luxury of being patient.”
What I can’t bring myself to admit is that if I’m not working on Meg’s story, all that’s left is crap content about home decorating, gardening, and relationships. Is Your New Friend a Con Artist? Five Signs to Look For. The thought makes me want to weep.
“Well, you’re taking a break tonight. Go get showered and put on something nice. I made a reservation at Magnolia for 6:30. Traffic is crazy, so we need to leave in forty-five minutes.”
I glance at my cell phone, silent on the desk, and wonder where Meg is, imagining her out there thinking she got away with it. Not knowing that we’ve named her in a police report, and that Scott and his colleagues are hard at work building a case against her. Not knowing that I’m slowly building the story that will finally expose her.
***
After my shower, I get dressed while Scott jumps in. On my nightstand I grab the tube of my favorite lotion, trying to squeeze the last remaining drops from the empty container.
“Shit,” I mutter, knowing it’ll be months before I can afford another one. But then I remember the small travel-size tube Scott got me for my birthday last year. I’d left it in his glove compartment after a road trip we took to Tahoe.
“I’m getting something from your car,” I call through the closed bathroom door.
“What?” he yells over the sound of running water.
I ignore him and grab his keys from the hall table where they sit next to his cell phone. The cool air outside envelops my wet hair, but instead of feeling the chill, I feel invigorated. A night out might be exactly what I need. I spot his car parked a few doors down and unlock it, sliding onto the passenger seat and opening the glove compartment.
I find my lotion behind the car manual and several old takeout napkins. I grab it and am about to close the glove compartment when I spot a cell phone wedged into a corner.
The lotion slips onto my lap as I take the phone and turn it over in my hands. It’s small and black, one of those throwaway burner phones that look like a smartphone but only perform the most basic of functions—calls, emails, and internet. I click the screen awake, hoping to see a photograph of strangers, their lost cell phone safely tucked in Scott’s glove compartment until he can return it. But it’s just a plain blue background, showing the time, date, and an unlock button.
I tap it and the phone awakes, no password protecting it, as if whoever owns it isn’t worried about stolen data.
There are no photos, no contacts, outgoing or incoming calls. I toggle over to the web browser to look at the browsing history.
My breath hitches in my chest as my eyes scan the list, the familiar names of gambling sites that have haunted my dreams and my darker moments lining up to reveal how well Scott lied.
I scroll down further to the date of the concert in the park. The time of the attempted breach at the bank. It was Scott who’d tried to access my account.
Quickly, I toggle over to the settings to see what email is linked to the phone. And even though I’m expecting it, even though I’m bracing for what I know I’ll find, it still feels like a punch in the chest.
Calistasniece at Yahoo.
