me. The only difference is the numbers that most likely correspond with the account the money was being withdrawn from. It abundantly proves Isaac is purchasing something significant from the Popovs. I just need to determine whether it’s upstanding like the purchase Tobias made or something much more sinister.
***
Many hours later, I fan a bedspread over Phillipa before heading to my room. We worked through both lunch and dinner, yet we’ve barely made a dent in the stack of wire transfer receipts Phillipa arrived back from Tiburon with. The angle Tobias was working is clear, each transfer appears to be an exchange of money between the Popovs, the Bobrovs, and the Petrettis. We just have no clue exactly what they purchased.
If it was children like Isabelle, this is worse than anyone could have comprehended. Several of the receipts have the same transfer identity imprint as the wire transfer receipt in Isabelle’s file, but without knowing the name of the child who could have been sold, we have no clue what their files are coded with.
We could scrounge through the thousands upon thousands of files in Tobias’s personal collection, but that would take months.
We don’t have months.
Phillipa disclosed Isaac’s payment was a down payment. That means there’s more to come. Furthermore, I can’t live like this for months on end. I love cheese pizza and tomato soup, second only to peanut butter licked off Melody’s skin, it’s my favorite combination, but I barely touched it when it was delivered fresh. I didn’t even reheat a slice when Phillipa’s hungry stomach got the better of her four hours ago, meaning I’m once again going to bed with a tablespoon of peanut butter hanging out of my mouth.
It’s the only thing that didn’t make my stomach churn when placed within an inch of my nose. It had quite the opposite effect, actually. I told Melody I’d never make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without getting hard. I should have said I’d never eat peanut butter again without testing the durability of the zipper in my pants. Just the smell of peanut butter mingling in the air gets me hard.
Eager to stop my zipper’s nasty bite on my cock, I suck off the remainder of the peanut butter from the spoon, dump it and the jar of peanut butter onto my bedside table before making my way to the walk-in closet to change into something more suitable for sleeping.
When I catch sight of my white face, black-rimmed eyes, and cracked lips while standing in front of the full-length mirror, I’m tempted to snap a selfie and send it to Alex. He wouldn’t need to demand a doctor’s certificate if he could see what I’m seeing. The black rims circling my eyes gives my skin a ghost-like appearance, and we won’t mention the low-hang of my shoulders or we’ll be here all night.
Once I’m dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a plain white shirt, I head to bed. My steps slow when I notice my iPhone screen is lit up with a text message. It’s so late, Agent Phillipa crashed on me like Isabelle did weeks ago, but not nearly early enough for my mom to remind me that the best days begin when the sun is rising.
Curious, I check who the message is from before crawling into bed. I’m tired, but I can’t take an ounce more curiosity.
My pulse spikes when I speedread the message.
Unknown number: Hey, BJ. Are you awake?
I cross my room at the speed of lightning to check Phillipa is still asleep on the couch. Her faint snores are authentic, but she’s the only female in a very long time who has called me BJ at this hour.
When I find Phillipa snuggled under my bedspread, I type out a reply to my mystery caller while pacing back to my semi-naked bed. I only have one blanket, and that’s keeping Phillipa warm.
Me: I am. Who’s this?
It feels like the planet circles the sun a million times while waiting for the three dash message sequence to be replaced with a text.
For how long it takes, I expected more than a five word response.
Unknown number: It’s Melody. Can we talk?
As my eyes stray to my partially cracked opened door, my heart beats out a tune I haven’t heard in years. Don’t ask me why I’m checking if the coast is clear. Your guess on my weirdness of late would be as good as mine. I’ve barely felt myself the past seven years.
Me: