The foster records provided a clearer picture of the two years Erich spent in the orphanage before entering foster care, though the details were sparse. His first placement, in February 1985, was with a young couple considering adoption. The woman, a secretary at a CPA firm in Anaheim, described him as “friendly, observant.” Sergeant Taylor noted their contact information for follow-up.
The next placement offered more insight. A dairy farm nearly two hours from Los Angeles took in young boys to work, claiming it built character. The foster father described Erich as “stubborn, but bright.” He would have been fourteen, maybe fifteen, during that time.
The final placement before his arrest for stealing car radios was with a pastor and his wife. This record was sealed. The orphanage refused to release further details, citing the family’s request for privacy. Still, questions lingered. Erich would have been fifteen or sixteen. After his arrest, he served six months in juvie—and no one came to retrieve him.
Was she really meant to believe they let a sixteen-year-old walk away with no guardians?
Some days, Sergeant Taylor found herself banging her head against her desk, trying to make the pieces fit. Other days, she felt sharp, energized—driven by the steady stream of information uncovered with Janet’s help at the motel.
It had been months of digging.
And she still hadn’t bridged the gap between 1987 and 1993.
Chapter 17 – October 11, 1993 – Camille
Things were much more relaxed. We had our routine, and we trusted each other. I was getting riskier—braver with my advances. But mostly, I was lonely. I needed to be touched, acknowledged by someone who wasn’t a greasy old man with a wallet. I wanted to feel beautiful, less like a stray someone had picked up without knowing what to do with me. I ached to be tempting to someone my age. I wasn’t alluring to my other half, and maybe that hunger—to be wanted—also bred the desire to make him jealous.
And that’s exactly where things went downhill.
Dolly Parton crooned from the jukebox in a bar outside of Cambridge, Massachusetts, where it was slightly less populated. When we got into town that morning, I knew my audience would be different. Men in pullover sweaters studied for their bar exams under shaded oak trees. This was Harvard territory, and I knew the type all too well. These were the kind of guysI imagined my father had been—up-and-coming politicians and lawyers. Plenty probably came from the same kind of life I did. Minus the unheard-of incest plot.
I poked at the ice in my Dr. Pepper as I studied the wave of college men around me. You’d think I’d be on cloud nine with the number of options, but it felt more like choosing the right wire to cut to defuse a bomb. A lot of them came across like my brother or my father. Some already had dates. Others had binders open at the bar, studying over cheap drafts. I’d never even entered the dating game. I didn’t know if I was supposed to make the first move or wait to be chosen.
Erich was nowhere near my hunting grounds, but he wouldn’t have helped, anyway. He didn’t understand this kind of struggle. All he had to do was walk into a room and he could charm whoever he wanted. And the double standard he held me to was ridiculous. Once he trusted me to find my way back to the motel, he had no problem leaving with someone prettier than me, only to return in the morning and pick me up for the next leg of our trip.
I was about to give up on my mission to find true love when snapping fingers beside my head pulled me out of my thoughts.
“Sorry. I hope I’m not bothering you, but…”
I turned from the TV in the corner to the man leaning against the bar. His smile was infectious, messy golden hair tucked under a Harvard baseball cap. Baby blue eyes, a rounded, boyish face. The sweater he wore had symbols I couldn’t begin to decode, and his rolled sleeves hinted at strong arms.
“I wanted to see if you’d come sit with us. You look a little down.” He pointed toward a table across the room. A few nearly identical friends grinned and winked—one pumping his fist while a brunette woman laughed beside him.
I opened my mouth, but panic hit first. My eyes darted from him to the table and back again.
He laughed, easy and smooth. “Come on, we’re harmless. I promise. Jake thinks I can’t score, so you’d be doing me a huge favor.”
He held out his hand. I placed mine in his.
He helped me off the stool, then grabbed my Dr. Pepper, swirling it before sniffing it. “Well, this won’t do.” He set it back down and flagged the bartender, mouthing “two” as he held up his fingers. Two cans of Busch Light appeared.
My hand was still in his, and the fear that he might think I was mute pushed me to speak. “Thank you, but you don’t have to—”
He waved me off. “My pleasure. C’mon.” He picked up both cans in one hand, fingers splayed to hold them steady. Thankfully unopened. “I probably should’ve asked what you wanted. Sorry. I’m bad at this.”
A small smile pulled at my lips. “Beer is fine.”
He led me to the table, and the reaction when I arrived gave my ego a quiet, welcome lift.
“A MassArt girl! Thomas, you scoundrel.” The nearly identical guy in the corner had his arm around the brunette I’d noticed earlier, raising his beer. Another friend—stockier, like a weightlifter—lifted his drink in a sloppy cheer.
I glanced down at the sweater I’d bought for my disguise just hours before. I hadn’t thought it through. Before I could spin a story about some fictional cousin who actually attended MassArt, my escort jumped in.
“Ah, shut it, Henry.” His grip on my hand tightened briefly before he set the beers down and turned back to me. “Henry, Kelly, and Jake. Henry’s my older brother, Kelly’s his girlfriend, and Jake’s Henry’s roommate.”
“Hi.” I forced myself past the shock and reached for something lighter—something closer to who I used to be. “Elizabeth. But you can call me Liz.”
Kelly leaned into her hand, a Cheshire-cat grin spreading across her face. Rings glittered under the hazy amber light of the stained-glass chandelier. She wasn’t intimidating—more like a stand-up comedian waiting for her cue. Her Boston accent was thick. “So—actually MassArt, or no?”
