No one ever answered the tips I sent, but I continued anyway. I wasn’t sure what pushed me to do it. The idea had come to me one night when I was watching the news far too late and a story about a kidnapping came on. The news anchor had plead with the audience to submit any tips to the FBI hotline. I’d pulled it up out of curiosity and found a simple form I could submit.

It didn’t specify cold cases as excluded.

I dragged the pdf file from my email over to the upload box on the form. Again, I filled out the form with all the usual information—I’d done this a million times now.

My hand hovered over the mouse pad as the cursor remained on top of the submit button. Every time, I second guessed myself. Was I doing the right thing?

The victims deserved justice, and their families deserved closure.

That thought alone guided my hand to click the button.

3. Stone

3

STONE

I had my suitcase packed within hours. I wasn’t planning to stay long, just enough to confirm there was a case and leads and bring back enough evidence so the FBI couldn’t possibly turn down re-focusing on the case.

I owed it to the victims.

I couldn’t bring her back, but I could at least try to protect the people of Briarport.

My suitcase was stuffed with records I’d printed from the FBI database, alongside a bit of clothing. I eyed the bottle of scotch sitting on the counter, and, before I could stop myself, I stuck it in with everything else.

I’d been reviewing all the papers I printed and taking notes, neglecting sleep.

A buzzing sound pulled my attention away from rummaging through my belongings to pack. I found my phone sitting on my bed and read the name on the screen.

“Hey, Mom,” I answered. “What’re you doing up in the middle of the night?”

“It’s 5:00 a.m. here,” she answered. “And I know you usually wake early to get a little extra work done before lecturing.”

I looked out the window and found the sun already up. That meant it was already 8:00 a.m., and more time had passed than I originally thought.

How had it already been all night?

It’d been months since I lost chunks of time, and never like this. The hyper-fixation on this case had to be to blame. There was no other reasonable explanation. It was either that, or some form of neuropsychiatric disorder, but I had no other signs pointing to one.

At least none I noticed. 

“You’ve been working far too much again,” my mother scolded. ‘Were you up all night? I can hear it in your voice. You got no sleep.”