This Story Might Save Your Life(18)

I’m not sure if this makes me feel better or worse. None of this makes any sense. I lean back on the sofa and stare at my hands. I scrubbed them raw at Joy’s house but the elimination-print ink refused to come off. “We should post something,” I say finally. “Ask our listeners for help.”

Mallory widens her eyes. “Keller said not to.”

“She said she didn’t recommend it.”

“Ostensibly for a reason.”

“She didn’t know what she was saying. She can’t possibly understand how much reach we have.”

Mallory rests her elbows on her thighs, hands clasped and head down as if in prayer. She’s thinking of Apex Plus, I’m sure. Uncertainty tugs at my gut, but just as quickly my resolve is back. “Screw negotiations. There’s no podcast if there’s no Joy.”

She lifts her head.

“We went to the police about Joy’s stalker, and they did nothing. And now Joy and Xander are missing.” I see a response forming at Mallory’s lips, and I hold up a hand. “Think about it. Joy was in no way obligated to tell our listeners she needed a break. She must have wanted to make that public for a reason.”

“But then she didn’t. She didn’t even let you stay. You don’t even know what she was gonna say.”

It stings to hear the truth repeated back at me, but I’m undeterred. “If the situation were reversed, if I were the one missing, I’m certain Joy would do the same. We have listeners everywhere. There has to be someone out there who knows something.”

In the end, Mallory gives in.

We move to my office, where I pull an old microphone and two sets of headphones from the closet. The dogs get bones to chew on in another room, and within minutes my laptop is set to record.

Our headphones go on.

Mallory sucks in a chestful of air and gives me the cue.

“This is Benny Abbott,” I say, before begging our listeners for help.



* * *



“IT’S UP,” MALLORY says, joining me in the living room. “I updated the website too.”

A rush of cold hard reality washes over me. “Socials?”

She nods.

Well. She sinks down onto the cushion beside me, then springs right back up to collect a bottle of wine, two glasses, and two more packets of crackers. I’ve just finished pouring when a loud knock startles us both. The dogs go nuts, barking and circling the room like the floor is on fire.

Mallory’s wife is through the door before it’s halfway open. “I can’t believe it!” Quinn’s voice is a sonic boom. “I can’t believe it.”

I’ve met Quinn maybe ten times in the past six months; every time, I have to do a double take in order to connect her average size with her enormous presence. Dropping her purse, she wraps Mallory in a tight hug.

“I see you, I see you,” she says to the dogs as they jump all over her. “You’re so big now.”

I get the next hug, after which she grabs hold of both my arms. She’s rocking plaid pedal pushers, and her jet-black hair is tied back with a scarf, exposing the words BITE ME in cursive script beside a pair of cherries on the nape of her neck. Through smoky red lips, she whispers, “Tell me everything you know.”

We do. Ten minutes later, Quinn is shaking her head. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.”

I don’t disagree. “Do you think there’s anything else we should be doing?”

Quinn turns to Mallory, ignoring me completely. A wordless communication passes between them; it stretches out for so long I begin to wonder if they can actually hear each other’s thoughts. Quinn lifts the wine bottle from the coffee table to check its contents. “Help me find another glass?”

“First cabinet,” I say, but Quinn is already dragging Mallory from the room.

They disappear, and I wait for Quinn’s booming voice to cut through. When it doesn’t, I start getting antsy. I’m missing something. Something strange is going on. After another silent minute, I tiptoe toward the kitchen, ready with an excuse about opening another bottle.

Halfway around the corner, I stop. Mallory is crying into Quinn’s shoulder. Quinn gives me a somber, closed-mouth smile as she strokes her wife’s hair.

Humbled, I retrace my steps and wake up Joy’s computer. I can’t just sit around and eat crackers. This time, I widen the focus to the past ten days. There are a half dozen new files on the desktop, most relating to her research for last week’s episode on attic disasters. Her Notes app shows two recent saves. First, a short to-do list: schedule haircut, dentist appointment, call someone re: gutters. The second is a grocery list. All basic stuff.

There’s also a new folder, saved on the desktop two days ago, called XYZ. I open it. There are four files—three audio, one PDF. The audio files are raw tracks from our last three episodes. The PDF is also titled XYZ. I click on it, and a window pops up asking for a password.

“Huh,” I say aloud.

I key in potsierichiefonzie. Incorrect. I try a few other guesses: richiepotsiefonzie, different combinations of our names, her birthday, my birthday, our dogs’ birthday, Xander’s birthday. I even try the word password. All incorrect. There’s no way to see a preview.

I click on the recording of last week’s episode. Maybe Joy mentioned something that will strike me differently on a second listen. Some clue, some subtext that might provide further insight into her recent state of mind.