This Story Might Save Your Life(77)

“Two thumbs up,” Keller says when I call her.

“The Fonz,” I say. “From Happy Days. He’s our office mascot.”

Keller makes a humming sound and says she’ll get someone to track the IP ASAP. “But don’t expect anything. In all likelihood it wasn’t her. If she’s in trouble and somehow has access to a computer, I doubt she’d be passing information through emojis.”

“But if it’s her—” Everything lifts just saying these words.

“Like I said, don’t get your hopes up.” She ends the call.

Sarah and I spend the next hour pacing, and around nine o’clock I finally get a text: IP address not found.

I respond with a flurry of questions. When I realize Keller plans to ignore them, I drop onto the sofa and hug a pillow to my chest. “Maybe it wasn’t her.”

Sarah shakes her head. “No. That doesn’t make sense.” Rubbing her thumb knuckle against her lips in a gentle side-to-side motion, she gazes up at the ceiling. “Maybe … maybe that post had something to do with the statue.”

“Of course it did.” I’m already feeling sorry for myself. “What else could it have meant?”

“No, I mean the actual statue.”

“Like, a clue?”

“It’s not like she hasn’t left you clues before.”

I consider this. “Are the reporters still here?”

She peeks through the curtain. “Not as many. What are you thinking?”

We make a plan and turn out the lights. It’s after eleven when the street clears. I reach for my keys, but Sarah stops me.

“Let’s take my rental. Just in case.”

We slip outside, hugging the shadows until we’re safely inside her car. It takes us four minutes to reach Joy’s house. All the lights are off. I lock the gate behind us and let us in through the back door. Only as I’m turning on the first lamp do I realize Mallory might still be here.

“Mallory?” I whisper.

There’s no answer, but it’s late. If she was here, she’d likely be sleeping. I call her name as Sarah and I pass through the living room, switching on lights until we reach the basement.

“Mallory?” I shout it one last time for good measure. When it’s clear we’re alone, I head directly to the workstation.

The statue is in its usual spot in the center of the table, ducktail rubbed shiny by hand oils. I pick it up and run my fingers over all twelve inches of bronze-plated metal. There are no loose parts, no etchings, no secret compartments in the granite base.

“I don’t see anything.” I hand it over to Sarah.

“Heavy,” she says.

She takes a turn with it as I check the table; I run my fingers over the glossy wood, then get down on all fours to make sure there’s nothing written or taped to the underlying metal. When I’ve examined every last edge, every last corner, every last screw, I move on to Joy’s rolling chair.

“I feel like we’re in an escape room,” Sarah says, studying the base of a table lamp.

After inspecting the docking station and mic stands, I’m ready to give up. If there’d been anything to find, the techs would’ve found it, which means it either doesn’t exist or is sitting in a pile of evidence at the police station. I sink down to the rug and lie flat on my back. “This is stupid.”

Sarah’s brow puckers. I think she’s going to chide me for losing hope, but instead she joins me on the floor and takes my hand.

“So this is where you work, huh?”

It occurs to me that Joy and I might have recorded our final episode, and we didn’t even finish it. I’m still sick with regret over how our last encounter went down. How self-centered I was to assume it was about me. How shortsighted I was to not look past my humiliation and see how deeply she was hurting.

If there’s any consolation, any at all, it’s that I got to tell her I love her.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut until the threat of tears is gone. When I open them again, I freeze. Blinking, I sit, then stand, edging slowly toward the corner as if stalking prey.

“What?” Sarah asks.

I point to the ceiling. There’s a filter beyond the decorative bronze air grille—black, washable, new since they replaced their air-conditioning system a few months back—making it difficult to know if what I’m seeing is a shadow or something else.

Sarah’s beside me now.

“Help,” I say. Together we slide the desk toward the corner until I can stand on top and reach the air vent without having to stretch. Hastily, I fumble with the multi-tool on my key chain in search of a screwdriver. I don’t want to believe it until the grille is off.

“What is it?” Sarah asks. “What do you see?”

I’m staring straight into the eye of a surveillance camera.

It’s magnetized, and easy to remove. Holding it in my palm, I’m overtaken by a powerful surge of revulsion. “It wasn’t enough to sic Mallory on us,” I say.

“Oh my god,” Sarah whispers. “He had backup.”

Another ripple of disgust passes through me when I realize it’s the kind of spycam that connects to Wi-Fi for instant access. Upon closer inspection, I locate a microSD card on the side. Pressing gently, I pop it out, then click it back into place, so relieved to find this thing has local storage I nearly let out a whoop. Only I have no way to look at the footage here. My laptop and SD card reader are at home.