process. Whap. Kick that can. He patted the lady’s back and pulled away, trying to be subtle about gasping for air.
“I’m sorry.” The lady’s voice was soggy. “Are you part of Matilda’s family?”
“Just a friend.” Miles held out the photo. “Can I keep this?”
“Sure thing. I’ll just print up another.”
“Thanks.” He helped her take down the rest. She patted him on the cheek. He barely managed not to flinch.
“You’re a lovely young man,” she said. “Thank you.”
The photo lay on the passenger seat as he drove back to his motel. One lone puzzle piece. The only person who could explain its significance was dead. Just a fresh opportunity for torturous self-doubt.
Another Olympic event at which he excelled.
Once in the room, he got out his knife and released his laptop from its prison of bubble wrap and duct tape. He switched on the router. The electro-buzz made his ears ring and his teeth hurt, but he was highly motivated to endure it right now .
He called up the Facebook login menu, and poised his fingers over the keyboard. Her sign-in email he knew, but the password . . . ?
One granddaughter. One birthday between them. Matilda was no techie. She would go for a simple password, and to hell with security. He could run the password cracking software he had on his laptop, but he doubted he’d even need to, if his hunch was correct.
He started typing in combos of Amymatilda, then the numeric date. And on. And on. And on. He was about to give up in disgust and just run the software when it occurred to him to try Aimee.
He hit pay dirt, first try. Bingo. Aimee had posted on Matilda’s wall with the funeral details. Miles clicked around, checking out Matilda’s photos. He found several from the same series, of Matilda in that white sweater in the woods, but only one that featured the horned mountain.
Bullseye. The jpeg had geospatial data. Latitude, longitude, even elevation. He checked the coordinates, and found that it was in Central Oregon, near a town called Kolita Springs. Only a few short hours’ drive away.
He almost hyperventilated on the spot. He had to shut off the router and flop down on the bed until he stopped freaking out. Holy shit, he’d nailed Edie’s picture. It had to mean something. But what?
One piece of the puzzle. Only one.
What did you find, Matilda? What did you want to tell me? Why did they throw you down the stairs? What did you know?
This was going nowhere, so he tried to put it aside. He choked down a protein bar from his dwindling stash. His stomach was cramping with hunger, but cranky about actually dealing with any food that he put into it.
He flung himself onto the bed, which stank of dust, smoke, and mold. Pulled the pillow over his head to block out light and sound, but that left him choked with detergent, dead skin flakes, and dust mites. Plus toxic exhalations from cleaning solvents, paint, wood paneling.
He placed Lara in the center of his mind, and let everything else fade back, like Connor had taught him. To let his mind become wide and soft behind the shield. A net, asking a question. Waiting, soft and quiet and receptive, for an answer. No matter how fleeting or small.
Lara. Matilda. Give me something. Throw me a bone. Anything.
Logic demanded he get some rest, sleep. But logic had been the lowest asshole on the totem pole of his life for a while, and he wasn’t going to be able to sleep, not with this smell assaulting his nose, and this quantity of freak-out hormones in his system. He zinged like a tuning fork, in spite of his shield. In fact, this excitement seemed to be generated from deep inside the shield. A weird new development.
He sat crosslegged on the bed, staring at the horned hill in Matilda’s photograph. Then he pulled up topographical maps for the area that the geospatial data had indicated. He measured the actual distance between the two horns, for scale. Calculated the probable distance that Matilda had been from the
“I’m sorry.” The lady’s voice was soggy. “Are you part of Matilda’s family?”
“Just a friend.” Miles held out the photo. “Can I keep this?”
“Sure thing. I’ll just print up another.”
“Thanks.” He helped her take down the rest. She patted him on the cheek. He barely managed not to flinch.
“You’re a lovely young man,” she said. “Thank you.”
The photo lay on the passenger seat as he drove back to his motel. One lone puzzle piece. The only person who could explain its significance was dead. Just a fresh opportunity for torturous self-doubt.
Another Olympic event at which he excelled.
Once in the room, he got out his knife and released his laptop from its prison of bubble wrap and duct tape. He switched on the router. The electro-buzz made his ears ring and his teeth hurt, but he was highly motivated to endure it right now .
He called up the Facebook login menu, and poised his fingers over the keyboard. Her sign-in email he knew, but the password . . . ?
One granddaughter. One birthday between them. Matilda was no techie. She would go for a simple password, and to hell with security. He could run the password cracking software he had on his laptop, but he doubted he’d even need to, if his hunch was correct.
He started typing in combos of Amymatilda, then the numeric date. And on. And on. And on. He was about to give up in disgust and just run the software when it occurred to him to try Aimee.
He hit pay dirt, first try. Bingo. Aimee had posted on Matilda’s wall with the funeral details. Miles clicked around, checking out Matilda’s photos. He found several from the same series, of Matilda in that white sweater in the woods, but only one that featured the horned mountain.
Bullseye. The jpeg had geospatial data. Latitude, longitude, even elevation. He checked the coordinates, and found that it was in Central Oregon, near a town called Kolita Springs. Only a few short hours’ drive away.
He almost hyperventilated on the spot. He had to shut off the router and flop down on the bed until he stopped freaking out. Holy shit, he’d nailed Edie’s picture. It had to mean something. But what?
One piece of the puzzle. Only one.
What did you find, Matilda? What did you want to tell me? Why did they throw you down the stairs? What did you know?
This was going nowhere, so he tried to put it aside. He choked down a protein bar from his dwindling stash. His stomach was cramping with hunger, but cranky about actually dealing with any food that he put into it.
He flung himself onto the bed, which stank of dust, smoke, and mold. Pulled the pillow over his head to block out light and sound, but that left him choked with detergent, dead skin flakes, and dust mites. Plus toxic exhalations from cleaning solvents, paint, wood paneling.
He placed Lara in the center of his mind, and let everything else fade back, like Connor had taught him. To let his mind become wide and soft behind the shield. A net, asking a question. Waiting, soft and quiet and receptive, for an answer. No matter how fleeting or small.
Lara. Matilda. Give me something. Throw me a bone. Anything.
Logic demanded he get some rest, sleep. But logic had been the lowest asshole on the totem pole of his life for a while, and he wasn’t going to be able to sleep, not with this smell assaulting his nose, and this quantity of freak-out hormones in his system. He zinged like a tuning fork, in spite of his shield. In fact, this excitement seemed to be generated from deep inside the shield. A weird new development.
He sat crosslegged on the bed, staring at the horned hill in Matilda’s photograph. Then he pulled up topographical maps for the area that the geospatial data had indicated. He measured the actual distance between the two horns, for scale. Calculated the probable distance that Matilda had been from the
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