My brother-in-law studies the items arranged along the table.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” he says, looking through the old wallet, empty except for a tightly folded cashpoint receipt. “How do they know what to expect?”
“They know there are seven items; it was one of the instructions they gave to Shaun Rutherford.”
“But do they know exactly what’shere? Have they been specific about any of it, about what you’re supposed to give them, so they’ll leave you alone?”
I scroll through the text thread again. “Only the watch.”
“So: maybe theydon’tactually know the details. Maybe this stuff has been here so long they’ve forgotten.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Or maybe they never knew in the first place.”
“Then why do they want it all back?”
“That doesn’t really matter.”
Jess crosses her arms. “Seems like it matters to them.”
“Just humor me for a minute.” Dom lays the wallet down next to the old scarf. “What if they’re not sure exactly what was stashed in that dresser? Then… we could give them anything, to get them off your back. They’re not going to know, are they? And we get to keep some leverage in case they don’t go away.”
“We don’t want leverage,” Jess says, frowning. “We want them to leave us alone.”
I consider his idea for a moment. “They’ll be pissed off if they figure out that we’ve given them dummies.”
“They’re already pissed off,” Dom says. “It’s worth a try, isn’t it? You’re giving them a fake anyway, so why not give them a few more, retain some bargaining power?”
“I don’t know, Dom.”
“They’ve been smart, these people—not doing quite enough to get the police fully involved, staying anonymous, out of arm’s reach.” He indicates the bandage on my head. “They’ve shown they’re willing to use violence to get what they want. If we can identify them, unmask them, we take away their power and they won’t be able to threaten you anymore.”
With my reluctant agreement, we spend a few minutes gathering a handful of items: an old pair of Jess’s reading glasses and a wallet from the kids’ dressing-up box, one of Coco’s old collars, minus the tag. For authenticity, we add the old Motorola phone, the scarf, and the brass key with the two rings.
“We need to give them something extra as well,” Dom says. “Wait here a minute.”
He goes out to his car and returns a moment later, opening his hand to reveal a small metallic disc about the size of a two-pound coin, the familiar Apple logo in the center.
“What’s that?”
“AirTag.” He slips the disc into the lining of the dummy wallet, pushing it in as deep as it will go. “I keep one in my work bag in case it ever gets lost or stolen.”
“What is it, like a tracker?”
“Kind of,” he says. “It sends out a passive Bluetooth signal that can be detected by any nearby Apple device. That device sends the location to the Cloud, then you can go to the Find My app and see where your AirTag is on a map.”
I frown. “But that little thing could end up miles away. Your phone won’t be anywhere near it.”
“Doesn’t have to be—that’s the coolest thing about it.” He grins. Beneath his gruff exterior, my brother-in-law has always been a bit of a Gadget Boy. “As long as the tag is in Bluetooth range ofanyiPhone, oranyApple device, it will be passively broadcasting its location. So as long as it doesn’t end up in the middle of the Sahara Desert we should have a good shot at finding it. And the whole thing is anonymous and encrypted.”
“Sounds absolutely perfect for stalkers.”
He gives me adon’t be a spoilsportlook. “It’s perfect for what we need today. We’ll be able to track them, see where the bag ends up—find out where this person lives.”
When we’re finished getting the items together and he’s satisfied the AirTag is pinging its location, I send a text to the unknown number.
OK you can have it all. Tell me where to bring it.
