Seven

He had woken up with the whole house to himself and although the awkward quietness around hits him, he is totally unbothered by the whereabouts of his wife. He is seated in the dining room, a laptop carefully placed on the round shiny table and a cup of coffee by his hand. He searches through the precinct database, trying to pinpoint the mysterious Jeremy. He knows if Jeremy was that low on the food chain, then he would probably be held at least once for petty crimes like pickpocketing. He tries to find the Spanish boys on the database with the name Jeremy. Nothing comes up. He searches for just Jeremy and apparently, Jeremy is a name of almost all the petty thieves in Bushkill. He brushes his face, all options exhausted and still nothing. The case is only a couple of weeks and there’s not a single trail to follow, except he believes a kidnapper had Luna syndrome.

The door creaks open but he doesn’t raise his head. He doesn’t notice. he simply brushes his head almost like he is trying to escape a migraine. 

Maria doesn’t say a word either. It’s almost been the routine for days. She hates the way he consumes himself in the case and although she knows everything is at stake, she also knows her husband only invests this much because of their lost child.

 She escapes to the kitchen, offloading everything she has with her and then back to Sebastian and he finally sees her for the first time in weeks.

“Sebastian, staring at the screen all day, spending nights staring at blank papers will not change anything.”

“I must be missing something. It doesn’t add up.”

“It doesn’t add up? A boy watched his sister return and she says the exact thing and it doesn’t add up?”

“That’s the thing. It adds up too perfectly. It feels rehearsed.”

“Are you really accusing an eight-year-old of framing her own disappearing and returning?”

“It is not…”

“Even the best criminals are not that scandalous. I mean, the only time I ever see that happen is with Gillian Flynn.”

Sebastian cocks his brows, totally lost off space by what his wife is saying.

“Gillian Flynn. Author of Gone Girl?”

Sebastian cannot help but scoff in half laughter. He knows his wife read books in her leisure but comparing his theory with a fictional work is almost a complete joke and he knows better than to pay any attention anymore. 

“The fact that she is incapable of such is why I am bothered. She says there were sounds of huge trucks where she was kept. The only place that matches such a description is about a community away. The mother, the teacher, all saw a black SUV. No camera footage shows where they left from. We assumed they must have seen wrongly but again, no camera catches any odd car driving her back. Now, what do you say about that?”

“I don’t know, you are the detective. Just don’t give it all of you till there’s nothing left for me and your daughter.”

“I am doing this for our daughter, Maria.” The words had spilt out of Sebastian’s subconscious and now, there is not taking it back. He knows he just confessed his real intent to his wife who had handled the loss manlier than he did.

“Which? Hope or Sarah?” Maria’s voice has venom in it and her anger is hissing through the back of her throat.

Sebastian does not say a word

Although Sebastian knows how right his wife is and how much he wants to wrap his hand around her and say he is sorry for it all. He doesn't. Damn. He curses as he watches her curl up in the bed, facing the bedroom lamp. She must be crying and he knows it. He doesn't stop her. He doesn't say anything but he needs a cigarette. He goes to the kitchen, after rampaging through drawers, he finds a stack he had left and tugs it into his pocket. No thoughts, maybe too many thoughts and all he wants is to shut them up, even though it's for as long as the cigarette burns before he lights another.

Sebastian is found standing in the middle of a lonely night street. A quiet night, not too windy and freezing to the normal degree. The flowers are evergreen and a little moist from the late-night dew. The only thing more visible than just shades to sight is the red light hanging close to his mouth as he draws in some smoke and puffs them out. 

He pulls his glove out and begins to analyze the environment. He observes the camera position at one end of the street and he locates a blind spot. The school is only a few blocks away. What was Laurel doing here? He blows off the smoke from his lips. It helps him think. It helps him even for a moment and he is willing to go with that. 

He recalls every single tape he had watched on this case. Over and over he had played them. Over and over he finds it uncomfortably perfect. He had gone back to gather tapes from days ago, then weeks, then months but still, nothing. No evidence of anyone checking to find camera blind spots. 

He follows the path the SUV had passed twelve years ago and although most people will doubt their memory, he is sure of every turn he makes until the next blind spot where the SUV was found. No fingerprints, no trace of anything. He watches a few blocks away and there was the Browns mansion. Just one turn and he would be where Laurel supposedly was dropped. This spot again. Something is odd. He walks down the street, close enough to the main road. He is sure the cameras can pick on him. Sure they can. They are designed to see everything. He moves towards the end of a building again, turning to observe the camera lens again. He crosses to the other end of the road, takes a long walk till the point Laurel had described.

Sebastian has a plan. He knows with every step he takes and every time he doubles back, he covers more ground. He will watch himself go round all through the night and if the camera never misses him, then he has a magician in his hands but if the Camera only shows him at certain points, then they are humans after all. 

He feels his throat tighten in suspense. He doesn't know what to expect. This is the point he should follow the advise and toss a coin. Whatever he hopes for, then that's what he wants. He doesn't. He doesn't even want to know what he hopes for, there is no space for hope just the truth of what had happened Twelve years ago and a few weeks ago.

When he is sure he had taken all the bends and step doubled back more than he was willing to, he heads home wrenching the last half-burnt cigarette with his foot.

Tomorrow he will get a warrant, knowing he might get his first lead.