Hands trembling, I pull out my phone and take pictures of the inside and outside of the card, then the envelope front. Then I return the card to its place and seal it back up. The night we hung out in the stable, Caden told me he thinks Zoe might still be alive. Leaving a note for her makes sense. Of course she’d know about his spot in the unused stall. Maybe he’s been hoping, all these months, that she’d come home and find it.
Unless he left the card for someone else to find. Someone who agrees with Martina’s “boyfriend theory,” who thinks Caden knows something about Zoe’s disappearance. Maybe even had something to do with it. Leaving a note for Zoe would be pretty clever, if you had something to hide.
Back in the office, I return to the CTdocs folder. Inside is just one file, a Word document. I open it.
The text inside looks like it’s been cut and pasted from a series of emails between two accounts: [email protected] and [email protected], with dates ranging from August 20 to November 28 of last year. They’re clearly aliases, spins on the names of important historical figures. Someone didn’t want to use their school or personal accounts. The emails range from quick notes to make plans to intense academic discussions to impassioned letters between two people who want to be together—by October and November, they’re a hot jumble of feelings. I think I’m falling for you. I don’t know what to do. I can’t see you. I need to see you. I hate myself. I need to figure this out.
The emails aren’t signed, and they never use their names. It’s clearly intentional, to preserve anonymity. But I can only assume that IdaBeWise is the girl from the photos and ThurGoldMarshall is Caden.
I rummage through Emilia’s desk for a flash drive. There’s an opened three-pack in the back of the top drawer, resting next to a stack of old photo prints bound together with a fraying rubber band. In the first photo, Emilia barely looks older than me. Her hair is cropped into a pixie cut that surprisingly suits her, and she has her arm wrapped around a friend with dark, waist-length hair who looks about ten years older and vaguely familiar, although I can’t place her. The two women are beaming.
I put Emilia’s photos back where I found them and turn my attention to the two flash drives still in the pack. With a tiny prayer I’m not going to get fired for this, I slip one out. Of all the brainless, invasive things I’m doing this afternoon, this seems like the least of my sins, but I’m still stealing from my employer. I pause, quickly calculating how long it would take me to walk to the CVS in town, buy a flash drive of my own, and get back to Clovelly Cottage. Not that long; forty-five minutes round-trip if I hustle. But I don’t have any idea what time the Talbots are due home. It’s already late afternoon; they could come back anytime. I slip Emilia’s drive into an unused port and copy the contents of both folders over.
* * *
I’m too late anyway. Halfway through the copse of trees, envelope and original flash drive clutched in my hands and visions of the unopened Coke can I left sitting on top of the mini-fridge dancing in front of my eyes, I hear voices and a car door slam. Caden and Mrs. Talbot are home. Fuck me. I spin on my heel and dart back the way I came, back across the deck and into the safety of the pool house. My heart is hammering, a wild bird in my chest. I am epically, epically screwed.
Unless Caden doesn’t go into the stable tonight. Unless he goes to the “servants’ wing” to read, or has a hankering to watch Cabin in the Woods or The Ring, or does some yard work, or does any of the other things he does around Windermere aside from hanging out in the stable with Pike and Jackie O. As long as he doesn’t check his stall tonight, I can get up super early tomorrow, while the Talbots are still sleeping, before Emilia and Tom come home, and return the flash drive and envelope to the exact spot where I found them.
I set my alarm for 4:00 a.m. Caden will never have to know.