The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(99)

When Beck remembers the advice she gave to her mother—and realizes Mom took it—she wonders how she possibly could have missed the password until now.

Then again, when the worst tragedy imaginable has struck the person you love more than almost anyone—no, more than anyone—in the world, is it any wonder that your mind is too grief-clouded for logic?

But now all that matters is that she’s guessed it correctly at last.

It took her a while, even after she figured out that stinkerdoodle was the password, because the word was only part of it. She had to remember the rest of the advice she’d given her mother.

Substitute a digit for a letter—a zero for an O—or replace it with a symbol, like the at symbol for an A, or a dollar sign for an S . . .

If you use the phone number, put the digits in reverse . . .

Mom had done all of the above. The password is $tinkerd00dle5697.

Open Sesame . . .

At last granted access to her mother’s e-mail account, she begins scrolling through the mail folders, hoping to find everything intact: old mail, sent mail . . .

“Aunt Beck?”

“Mmm-hmm?” She looks up to see Jordan tearing a page out of his coloring book.

“I made this for you.”

“Oh, Jordan . . .” She swallows hard and gathers him close, examining the picture and complimenting him on the beautiful colors and the way he’d tried to stay inside the lines. “Great job, sweetie.”

“You can hang it on the fridge like Grammy used to.”

“I will.” She stands and crosses over to the refrigerator, looking for a magnet that isn’t already holding up a grandchild’s artwork.

“No, I meant your fridge at your house.”

“Oh. I will. I’ll do that.” Just as soon as I figure out where my house is going to be.

“Aunt Beck? Can I watch TV now? Please?”

Well aware that his parents limit his screen time, Beck is pretty sure she should say no. Instead she says “Absolutely,” her thoughts consumed by her mother’s e-mail account—and what she might find there.

Standing at the baggage claim with Kay and the other passengers from their flight, Elena looks at her watch. “Why is this taking so long?”

“You’re in the South now. Everything probably takes a little longer,” Kay tells her. “Just be patient.”

“Patience isn’t exactly my thing.”

“Really?” Kay asks dryly, watching Elena pace until at last there’s a buzzing noise and the conveyer jerks into motion.

Bags—none belonging to Kay—begin to topple down the chute.

“I think the connection was too tight,” Elena tells her as one passenger after another grabs luggage and rolls it away. “I bet your bag didn’t make it.”

“Don’t say that! I need it!”

“You should have carried on, like I told—”

“There it is!”

Looking triumphant, Kay hurries forward to grab a small black carry-on that could have easily been stowed above—or even beneath—an airplane seat.

Elena fights the urge to chide her again. The bag made it. That’s all that matters, right?

“Now all we need is Landry,” she mutters. Then, seeing the look on Kay’s face, she adds, “Patience. I know, I know. I need patience.”

That, and a nice big, strong drink to relax my nerves.

She paces again.

At last Landry hurries around the corner, phone in hand. “Oh, good! You got your bag, Kay! Are y’all set to go?”

“More than set,” Elena can’t help saying pointedly.

“Sorry my phone call took so long,” Landry tells her. “He’s at work, so it took a few minutes for them to track him down.”

“I thought he was in North Carolina.”

“No, my husband is in North Carolina.”

“Isn’t that who you went to call?”

“Is that what I said? I meant my son.” Landry gives a flustered little laugh.

“I bet it’s easy to get them mixed up, now that Tucker is growing up,” Kay tells her.

Elena says nothing at all, regarding Landry through narrowed eyes.

What if something strange is going on here?

What if I just walked into some kind of trap?

Landry is the one who, last weekend, had so much to say about the potential for Internet imposters. What if she, herself, is one of them?

Elena studies her now as they walk out to the parking lot. She’s fiddling with her car keys, checking her cell phone every couple of seconds.

“Are you waiting for a call back or something?” she asks.

“What? Oh, no . . . just checking the time.”

Right. She’s wearing a wristwatch.

An expensive one, Elena noticed earlier. She certainly looks like the wife of a fancy lawyer.

But what if she’s not?

“Do you want to try to reach Detective Burns again?” Landry asks Kay.

“We should probably just wait for her to get back to us.”

“I can’t believe it’s taking this long. Are you sure you called the right number? She said she always picks up.”

“I know, but she didn’t. I left a message for her to call as soon as she can. I’m sure she will.”