Missing Pieces(75)

Jack could have told his family she was Astrid, though Sarah would be surprised if he had done so. He had only seen them a handful of times over the years, talked to them sporadically. Jack didn’t tell Amy anything personal about their life. It was as if their happiness, their success, made Amy even more sour about the difficulties she faced—the failed relationships, the substance abuse, her run-ins with the law. Amy would be the very last person he would tell that Sarah wrote the Dear Astrid column. If Jack told anyone it would have been his aunt Julia and she certainly hadn’t told anyone.

Gabe picked up on the first ring. “Sarah, did you get my texts?” His voice was taut and anxious. “The emails that you wanted me to check on, they’re coming from Penny Gate.”

“I got them. Julia’s funeral was starting and I couldn’t get away until now. Are you sure? Could it be a mistake?” she asked.

“It’s no mistake. Those emails are coming from Penny Gate. According to our tech guy, at least one of them came from the public library server.”

“The library?” Sarah thought back to the other day when she had been at the library scanning the documents from the case file. Had the person who sent the emails been hiding behind the stacks, watching her every move? “How does he know it came from the library?”

“He tracked down the IP address, which is connected to a computer at the library in Penny Gate.”

“What about the other two emails? Where did they come from?” Sarah asked.

“Gary thinks that they most likely originated from a prepaid burner phone.”

Sarah shook her head warily. “This makes no sense at all, Gabe.”

“It doesn’t matter if it makes sense, Sarah,” Gabe said impatiently. “It’s too odd of a coincidence. I think you need to go to the police. Tonight. Now.”

“No one here knows I’m Astrid,” she managed to say. “No one except Jack.”

“Sarah, you know I’m no alarmist. We get bizarre emails at the paper all the time. But these I think you need to worry about. Whoever is sending you these messages knows exactly who you are and where you’re at.”

She thought back to the night before and the watch left behind on her car. What did it mean? And the truck that ran her off the road. Now she was sure it wasn’t someone who had too much to drink or an accident. Someone purposely sent her into that cornfield. Were they trying to kill her or just send her a message to stop digging into Lydia’s death?

“Sarah, this isn’t a game. You could really be in danger.”

“I’m beginning to think you’re right.” Sarah told him about the body in the cistern and described finding the watch on her windshield.

“This is hitting too close to home. I think you need to get out of there.”

“Believe me, I can’t wait to get out of this town,” Sarah assured him.

“Who do you think sent them?” Gabe asked.

“I really have no idea. The only clue we have is that it’s someone from Penny Gate, and seeing as I know only a total of about five people from here, I guess it would have to be one of them. The easy answer would be Amy, Jack’s sister.”

“You can’t think of anyone else?” Gabe prodded.

“No,” Sarah said hesitantly.

“Seriously, Sarah, you need to go to the sheriff about this.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll talk to someone. I’ll call you later,” she said before hanging up.

She made her way back into the church basement and from across the room Sarah could see Jack sitting at one of the long folding tables, her purse sitting on the chair next to him. She watched as he reached into her purse, rooted around, pulled out a package of tissues, then dug a little deeper. A quizzical expression appeared on his face as he looked down at the secondary items he retrieved from her purse. Sarah craned her neck to see what he was looking at but it was too small. She wove her way between tables and past townspeople who offered their condolences. Sarah paused to thank them but her eyes never left her husband’s face. When she was just a few steps away she recognized what was in has hand: the watch that was left beneath her windshield wiper the night before.

Jack peered down at the watch face, his eyes narrowed, his forehead furrowed. He flipped it over, brought it close to his face and lowered it again.

“Jack?” Sarah asked.

He looked up at her, his eyes filled with tears. “Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice raspy.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Where did you get this?” Jack said loudly. The chatter around them stopped and Sarah felt a roomful of eyes on them.

“It was on the windshield. Last night after the wake. Someone put it on my windshield.” She sat down next to Jack and gradually the murmurs of conversation resumed.

“This watch,” he said. His eyes were wide, his face ashen. “It belonged to my dad.”





19

“YOUR DAD?” SARAH ASKED. “How do you know?”

“I just know. He had it forever and he never took it off. He had it on that day.”

“Are you certain?” Sarah asked.

“Can you picture your dad’s hands?”

Sarah could. She didn’t even need to close her eyes to remember her father’s hands. They were tanned and rough from the elements and hard work, but slim and graceful, too, like a musician’s. She could also clearly see the Zenith watch he wore on his left wrist with its golden numbers and face clouded with condensation that had somehow gotten beneath the glass. She nodded.