They always carry a satellite phone, too, but it’s for emergencies. We’re not that far from civilization, but depending on the weather and terrain, their cell signals might be spotty at best. Not that it matters, his sister isn’t that far away. I was going to call her to go over my plans for the next couple of days, but she beats me to it.
“Look at them now,” she says with urgency.
I put her on speaker and open my texts, unable to tell whether she’s excited or terrified.
LARA CROFT (10:13AM): Look at these. Right now.
Her name isn’t really Lara Croft. It’s a nickname from high school. She hates it, her husband pretends he hates it just because she does, and her brother refuses to let it die. I secretly love it, too, and when she saw I made it her contact ID, she didn’t speak to me for an hour.
Because an hour is all she could manage.
There are no less than 10 links, most of which are links to news sites and the remaining being a smattering of TikTok videos. As soon as I click on the first article, it immediately gives me pause, “No way,” I murmur in awe, “are you…are you serious?”
“Plot twist!” she shrieks in delight, her voice echoing through the kitchen’s vaulted ceiling.
After getting over my initial shock, I begin scanning a ProPublica article titled, “PREDATOR IN THE HEARTLAND by Sydney Van Doren.”
“How…” I trail off, scrolling through the extensive article. There are names, there are places…then my jaw drops as soon as I come to two photos side by side, and then another—of myself—further down, “Oh my god…” There are no words, just shock and awe—definitely Sydney’s style.
“Are you alright?” she asks.
“Yeah…yeah…” I take a deep breath, “this is just…wow. I take it this is what she’s been working so hard on lately.”
“You don’t have to read the whole thing now, but it’s—” there’s a pause while she finds the right words, “mind-blowing. There’s a lot that you didn’t know—that none of us knew, until the right people started asking the right questions.”
“Apparently…” I mutter, still astounded.
“But check it out,” she pivots to the videos, “click on the first TikTok video and please refrain from screaming.”
With a macabre mixture of excitement and foreboding, I scan the other links, which include the same story but from other major news outlets, and click on the first video link. It finally loads in the app and a woman with long, curly black hair, deep purple lips, and cat eyes sits in front of a swanky black bookcase with backlighting. Her name is Hailey Hawks, and she’s talking about my book. In and of itself, it’s not surprising, given its instant success.
But Hailey Hawks is not a Bookfluencer, per se…
She’s a true crime podcaster.
Hailey Hawks is what happens when TikTok meets Dateline. Her personality is off the charts, but she’s also a really good writer and amateur journalist. If you see a woman with long, curly black hair, dramatic makeup, who’s wearing a Slipknot t-shirt and dancing across the screen to Shakira while raising awareness about an unsolved case in North Dakota, it’s probably her.
Hailey’s niche is featuring books based on true crime and bridging the gap between two giant audiences. However, this time is different. This particular video is a teaser for her upcoming episode.
Hailey holds up my book, speaking to the camera.
“Y’all know I only focus on nonfiction, but this morning my inbox was filled with messages about an article that just dropped…a cold case from way back when I started…then readers started contacting me about this book and its author, who are named in said article…and then this restraining order came out, with a name…guys, this is a bombshell to say the least…I don’t think it’s coincidence, there’s something big happening here…”
Now Hailey’s talking in vague terms about police reports and Facebook posts and timelines and patterns and cover-ups…
“Stay tuned for the next show dropping in three days…make sure to turn on your notifications…”
“Brett,” her voice breaks me out of my stupor, “this is it.”
And she’s right. Social media is the wild, wild, West. Web sleuths find things, people talk, and it spreads like wildfire. Nothing is ever truly forgotten. It just depends who’s listening…
I open my mouth to speak, but something catches my eye in the reflection of the microwave. I spin around to look out the dining room window at the line of pine trees. A branch bobs back and forth and a bluejay flies into view, landing on a limb. It gives a shrill squawk and hops to a higher branch.
I saw it. I know I did.
There’s crackling, like she’s chewing something, “Brett, are you still there?” she calls.
“Yeah…yeah, I am…” I linger on the branches a few moments longer and then slowly scan the rest of the landscape, “I thought I saw something outside.”
“You saw him, didn’t you?” she asks, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah,” I steady my breathing, which takes more effort now that I’m alone on the property, “it’s the first time since your brother left.”
“How do you feel?” she asks, gauging my anxiety.
She knows what’s happening. She’s been here through everything that happened years ago, dealing with the aftermath, the anxiety and the panic attacks, recognizing all the triggers, trying to move on…
“Alright,” I reply, my voice evening out. And it is, talking to her makes it better, because I’m not really alone. “I just have to focus. Keep my head in the game.” I give a laugh, “Saddle up or get left behind, isn’t that what your brother always says?”
“He says a lot of things,” she snickers, “I wish I could come and stay with you while he’s gone.”
“I know, but it’ll be fine,” I reassure her, “it won’t be for that long. And the next time I see you, everything will be different.”
“We’re attached at the phone,” she states gravely, “if you need anything, I’ll be watching.”
“Thanks,” I smile, her calming influence contagious even over the phone. “Speaking of which, I need to call Valerie and let her know the status of my car.”
I’m actually looking forward to making plans with Valerie. Granted, I shouldn’t be surprised I like her so much. In many ways, she reminds me of who I used to be. Maybe that’s why she’s here. Scratch that—I know that’s why she’s here.
