“But he still went?”
“Yes. The money was good, and they gave us a free stay at this cool resort in Utah, so he figured, Why not? But once he was there, Silas just sulked. I don’t think he said two words. He became a pretty popular meme.”
“A meme?”
“I think that’s what they call it. People would post pictures of Silas and call him Silent Silas or Sulking Silas, and then they’d add some comment about being grumpy, like ‘Me before coffee.’ Silas was upset about it. He wanted to sue the show.”
“Where is Silas now?”
“I’m not sure. He drives a truck so he’s on the road most of the year. I can give you his mobile number?”
“That would be great.”
“I don’t think Silas will be much help though.”
“How about Jenn?”
“What about her?”
“Was Peter still in touch with her?”
Vicky shook her head. “Not toward the end, no.”
“Do you and Jenn talk much?”
“We used to. I mean, before all this, we were all very close. She was devastated by the betrayal.”
“So you believe Peter did it?”
Vicky hesitated. “He said he didn’t.”
Wilde waited.
“Does it matter anymore?”
“I’m not judging,” Wilde said. “I just...”
“You just what?” Vicky said, and there was a little edge in her tone now. “This doesn’t concern you. I told you I’d work on the family tree for you. That’s why you’re here, right? To find out why you were abandoned in the woods?”
It suddenly dawned on Wilde that for the second time in his conscious life — the first time was just a few months ago with his father — Wilde was conversing with a blood relative. He expected that it would mean nothing to him. He had spent his life convinced that the answers would provide no meaningful closure or change in his life, especially after his encounter with a father who clearly wanted nothing to do with him, and yet now, as he faced someone who shared his blood, there was an undeniable pull.
“Vicky?”
“What?”
“You talk about chakra and feelings and all that.”
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not. But something about this whole thing isn’t adding up.”
“I still don’t see how that concerns you.”
“Maybe it doesn’t. But I’m going to dig into this, with your blessing or not. At best, you’ll get some answers. At worst, I’ve wasted some of your time.”
“You’re not wasting my time,” Vicky Chiba said. Then she added, “You’re our cousin. And you have my blessing.”
Chapter Twelve
Rola said, “Peter Bennett is most likely dead.”
“I know.”
“I don’t get why you’re looking for him.”
Rola Naser, Wilde’s foster sister, and her family lived in a classic 1970s split-level with a bloated addition on the back. A muddled mishmash of children’s play equipment — bicycles, tricycles, pogo sticks, bright orange plastic baseball bats, a lacrosse goal, dolls, trucks — was scattered across the front yard as though someone had strewn them from a great height.
They sat at the kitchen table. One of Rola’s kids was on Wilde’s knee. Another was eating a jelly donut, wearing a lot of it on her face. The two oldest were in the corner working on a TikTok dance, which involved repeatedly playing a song that asked the musical question, “Why you so obsessed with me?”
Wilde bounced the kid on his knee to prevent him from crying. “You spent years pushing me to find out about my biological family.”
“Truth.”
“Nagged me ad nauseam about it.”
“Truth.”
“So?”
“So Peter Bennett’s sister — what was her name again?”
“Vicky Chiba.”
“Right. She said she would make up a family tree for you, right?”
“Yes.”
Rola turned her palms toward the sky. “She’s older than her brother, probably knows more about the family than he does. So that’s all you need, right? I read about Peter Bennett online, and he sounds like a major-league douchenozzle. Why do we need to help him?”
Explaining would take too long and probably not make sense, even to him. “Can we just skip my motivations for now?”
“If you want. Can I fix you something to eat? And by ‘fix’ I mean, should I order more pizza?”
“I’m okay.”
“Doesn’t matter. I already ordered an extra pie. What can I do to help?”
Wilde gestured with his chin toward the laptop. “Mind if I use that?”
Rola hit a few keys and turned it to face him. Wilde snaked his hand around little Charlie’s waist, so he could type and balance the kid at the same time. He brought up Gmail.
“What’s up?”
“I watched Vicky Chiba type in Peter’s email address and password.”
“Let me guess. You memorized the password.”
He nodded.
“Without her knowledge?”
He nodded again.
“What’s the password?”
“LoveJenn447.”
He typed that into the password field, hit return, and bingo, he was in. Wilde started scanning through the emails. It was just as Vicky had said — nothing useful, nothing personal. Wilde checked the trash folder. Again nothing. He would take a deeper dive later.
“Any idea what the 447 stands for?” Rola asked.
“Nope.”
“Do you not trust the sister? Or should I say, your cousin?”
“It’s not that,” Wilde said.
He explained how Vicky had gotten a little queasy over the privacy invasion when she’d realized that her brother had changed his Instagram password. Using the LoveJenn447 password, Wilde tried to sign in to Peter’s Instagram.
No. Incorrect password.
Wilde had expected that. Below the message was the common link asking him if he’d forgotten his password and would he like to reset it. He clicked on it. When he did, Instagram, like pretty much every website after a password reset request, sent a link to the email on file.
The email on file was, drum roll, the Gmail account Wilde had gotten access to by watching Vicky Chiba sign in.
“Clever,” Rola said, when he explained it to her. “Primitive. But clever.”
“My epitaph,” Wilde said. He waited for the email to come in from Instagram. When it did, he changed the password to something benign. Then he signed back into Instagram with the new password. He hit the message icon. There were tons in the “All Request” messages, but Wilde clicked to the “primary” category.
The messages from DogLufegnev were right on top.
Rola was reading over his shoulder as Wilde clicked on the conversation.
DogLufegnev: If you try a comeback, Peter, I’ll destroy you. I know what you did. I have the proof.
Peter: Who are you?
DogLufegnev: You know.
Peter: I don’t.
DogLufegnev then sent a photo — a more graphic photo than the ones Marnie had produced for that podcast. Under the image was another message.
Dog Lufegnev: YOU KNOW.
There were no time stamps, so it was hard to say how fast Peter Bennett replied.
Peter: I want to meet. Here is my mobile. Please.
Rola was covering little Charlie’s eyes. “Wow.”
“Yes.”
“Nice lighting on the dick pic too,” she said.
“You want me to print it out for you?”
“Just send me a screenshot. So that’s it? DogWhatever didn’t reply to Peter’s offer to meet?”
“Not on here. But Peter gave him or her his cell phone. He may have called or texted. Any way we can trace down DogLufegnev?”