In the responses, other members assure her that they would never judge her for having feelings, that she’s justified in her anger, and if she wants to talk, this page is full of understanding people who are always available to listen. I only skim over them, because I don’t care what they have to say. I’ve already found what I wanted to, and it’s those two words: my children. Like 0001 and Violet, Penelope has lost more than one child to a killer who didn’t pay. And when she finally responds to all of the commenters, it makes my spine straighten up.
Penelope Chambers: I DON’T WANT TO SHARE FEELINGS ABOUT HIM. I WANT HIM TO FUCKING DIE.
2016. Four years ago. Penelope’s comment is the last in the thread, everyone else clearly too spooked to reply. I read it again, those capital letters, and feel a lump in my throat. It’s like watching someone turn to stone, a mountain. I read it, and I’m watching A?layan Kaya come to life—Penelope’s play of “female empowerment,” reborn on the dark web.
At some point, I know, I’ll find the name of the drunk driver. And when I google it, I’ll see a story about his untimely death—an accident with a gun or in a car, a heart medication overdose or a suicide by hanging, or something different, more creative. I know this. But for now, I have all the information I need on Penelope Chambers. I know who she is. And I need to get in touch with Wendy and tell her immediately.
I TEXT WENDY two percent signs—code for “emergency.” But I don’t hear from her. I check the time. It’s close to eight a.m., the time she’s supposed to call me anyway, to arrange a meeting place with Sheila. That’s just about ten minutes from now. I try not to watch the clock.
But eight a.m. comes and goes, and the burner doesn’t ring. She doesn’t send a text, either. She probably just got held up somewhere, I figure. But then it’s 8:30, 8:45. I text her two more percent signs and wait five minutes. Ten. Fifteen minutes.
“Okay,” I tell myself. “It will be okay.” But soon a million horrible scenarios flood my mind, the anxiety overriding the medication I’ve taken, and I’m drowning in a tidal wave, a geyser of blood. . . .
I stare at the burner phone, my heart racing, hands trembling. Come on, phone. Ring.
Eight more minutes pass. Nine. “Fuck it.” I grab the phone and call Wendy’s burner number. But there’s no answer—just a mechanical sound where the voicemail announcement should be, like an angel’s harp. Then we’re disconnected. Neither of these phones has voicemail.
“Wendy, Wendy . . .” I say her name like an incantation. “Please call me. Please . . .”
I remember the search I did on her back at Analog, and I do it again, my fingers shaking so horribly, it’s hard to hit the keys. Easy, easy . . . I find her home phone number and address right away and call the number, my eyes on the burner the whole time, that silent, dead burner.
It rings once, twice, three times before the voicemail picks up—a husky young voice that makes my heart drop. “Hi, this is Tyler. We’re not here right now, but if you wanna leave a message . . . you know what to do!”
I sit on the line, debating whether or not to say anything, before finally, I do, my eyes shut tight, tears seeping out the corners, trying to keep my voice calm. “Hi, Wendy, this is Camille. Too bad about Alayah and Pilot Pete, right? Anyway, I think I may have left something in your car when I . . . um . . . when I gave you a ride home last week. Can you call me, please? Thanks.”
Five minutes pass, then ten. And then I can’t wait any longer. I copy Wendy’s Jefferville address onto a pad of paper, then throw on a pair of jeans, a clean sweatshirt, and my heavy coat and boots and run out to my car, burner phone in hand, cell phone in my bag. Oh crap. It’s probably chipped. . . .
I open all the doors to search for the new chip. My plan is, if I don’t find it right away, I’ll hike to the bottom of the mountain and call an Uber from there. Ubers are very slow to show up in my town—half an hour at a minimum—but at least it beats getting followed.