My eyes sting a little while I read her email. Maybe I’m not doing important things like working for the FBI or serving in the Army, but I try to help people, just the same.
After I send Emily a quick reply, agreeing to stay in touch and let her know as soon as I can pick up with her case again, I click back over to my case files. And hers is the first one I open. Not because I think she’s the one responsible for me being attacked, but because it feels like something positive I can work on.
As I read through her file, I contemplate asking Nico to help. He wouldn’t mind, and I know he has so many more resources than me. And with his computer skills, he might be able to find something I didn’t.
Halfway through her files, something jumps out at me. Her security system was installed by Parisi Protective Services, which is Nico’s dad’s company. It’s not surprising, when I think about it—Elio Parisi has been installing home security systems in the metropolitan area for decades. But it’s an odd coincidence, just the same.
But there’s nothing else odd about Emily’s case, except her claim. I can almost understand why a harried police officer would look at the evidence and send her away.
Except I don’t think she was lying. And I saw her tears when she talked about her mother’s jewelry. She didn’t sell it. I’m certain.
At the end of the file, I find several phone numbers in the miscellaneous notes section, but no other details. Rather than call them, I look them up with a reverse phone number finder and jot down the names.
Do I think this will help me find my attackers? Not really. But it’ll take my mind off worrying about Nico. And it makes me feel useful again.
I plug the names into the website I use for background checks and sit back while I wait for the results. While I watchthe little loading bar chug along on the screen, I think about Elio Parisi’s company again. It’s ironic, really—he’s supposed to help keep people’s belongings safe, but in reality, he’s a liar and a thief.
A ding comes from my laptop, announcing the results are complete. As I scan the first of the reports, my attention sticks on something. This person, a woman named Rachel Endicott from Tribeca, is also divorced. Which wouldn’t be a notable thing on its own, but she also filed a police report about a theft from her house.
I lean closer to read the rest of the details. Six months ago, Rachel claimed her coin collection worth tens of thousands mysteriously disappeared from her house. Like Emily, her claims were summarily dismissed due to lack of evidence. No one had broken into her house and her security system never signaled an intruder. So the conclusion from the police is that she’d either sold it or one of her friends had taken it.
Something niggles at me. A hunch? A forgotten memory?
Moving on to the next report, my pulse speeds as I read something eerily similar. Another woman, divorced, with an unexplained theft from her house. Another claim that was dismissed by the police for lack of evidence.
The fourth report is more of the same. Except this woman’s house was vandalized, too. All her expensive paintings were shredded to pieces, and she’d been accused of doing it herself.
Once I’m done reading, I sit back, my heart racing.
While I initially thought Emily’s case meant nothing, now I’m not as sure.
I can feel the memory, right there. It’s so close, I can almost reach out and grab it.
Four cases. All strangely similar. All in the New York metropolitan area.
All of them accused of lying. Stealing.
And Emily?—
Oh.
I go cold all over.
My chest squeezes.
I remember.
Oh, God. I remember.
Like dominoes falling, one memory comes after another.
First the regular memories: going to work, visiting the grocery store, calling my aunt, texting Brian.
And then the others.
Of that last day, the one when I was attacked.
Calling each person on the list, my suspicion growing with each one I spoke to.
