Chapter 33

With the flair of a natural teacher, Ariel gave Joshua a lesson on handgun fundamentals. How to load and unload the revolver. How to engage and disengage the trigger lock. The proper shooter’s stance: feet shoulder-width apart, the foot opposite the dominant hand in front, body leaning slightly forward, elbow of the dominant hand locked. How and why to aim for center mass. Why to always assume that every gun was loaded, until proven otherwise.

Afterward, Eddie asked Joshua if he wanted to stay for dinner. Joshua thanked them for their help, but begged off. He was eager to get home and examine Rachel’s cell phone and computer.

On the drive back, he stopped by McDonald’s to grab dinner. He wasn’t actually hungry; he ate out of habit. All he wanted to do was get home and find answers.

When Joshua stepped inside the house, the phone was ringing. He raced to it, heart in his throat—and frowned when he saw his parents’ number on Caller ID.

His mother had called him on his cell phone at leastthree times in the past couple of hours. He’d let the calls go to voice mail. He was in no mood to deal with her while he was engaged in other, critical activities.

But he couldn’t avoid her forever. Reluctantly, he answered the phone.

“Where you been, boy?” Mom said. “I been callin’ you for the last two hours! You was supposed to come over for dinner.”

“I never said I’d be over for dinner, Mom.”

“Yes, you did! When you rushed out this mornin’, you said you’d be back for dinner.”

“I don’t remember that. But if I said it, I’m sorry. I already picked up something from McDonald’s.”

“McDonald’s? You done had me slavin’ in this kitchen all day and you done went and ate some junk food? What’s wrong with you?”

Joshua massaged his temples. He wished he hadn’t answered the phone. He felt a headache coming on.

His mother was saying, “. . . fried up some chicken, cooked some macaroni-and-cheese, sweet potatoes, turnip greens . . . peach cobbler.”

“Sounds delicious. Make me a plate and I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

“Chaquita ain’t gonna be here tomorrow!”

“Chaquita?”

“She came over here for dinner. She wanted to see you.”

“Why?”

“Why you think? I told her that heifer walked out on you.”

Joshua gritted his teeth. “Jesus, Mom, why’d you tell her that? That’s none of her business!”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. Chaquita ain’t never stopped lovin’ you. She wants to help you through all your troubles.”

“I don’t need her help.” He looked at his satchel on the kitchen table. “I’ve gotta go. A . . . a client is calling me with an emergency.”

“You better come by here tomorrow. Had me fix all this food for nuthin’. . .”

“I’ll stop by, promise. Bye.”

He hung up before she launched into another rant.

Someday, he would have to deal with his mother’s overbearing manner and intrusions into his life. But it was easier to avoid her, or suffer her antics, than it was to confront her. He hated confrontations.

He took out the laptop and cell phone. And the gun.

Gazing at the items, he realized that his tendency to avoid clashing with people had landed him in this position: studying his wife’s possessions for clues as to her whereabouts and past. Early in their relationship, he should have pushed Rachel for full disclosure. He should have demanded the truth.

Because of his weakness, he was left alone to muddle through her life and piece things together.

Coco wandered into the kitchen. He pulled away a chair and sat, and the dog hopped into his lap, tail wagging.

“Let’s see what your Mommy was hiding on here,” Joshua said, and turned on the computer.

* * *

Joshua pulled up various file folders on the computer’s hard drive. He soon discovered the thing that he’d most feared.

Rachel had deleted everything.

The only files remaining on the system were those required to power the programs and applications. But the folder labeled “My Documents,” and all of its subfolders—“Salon Business,” “Finances,” “House Docs,” “Miscellaneous”—were empty. The “My Photos” folder was wiped clean, too.

“I don’t believe this.” He pressed his fingers his temple, which was pounding again, a headache brewing in the front of his skull. “Now what?”

When he’d walked in on Rachel in her study a couple of nights ago, she’d been surfing the Web. She said she’d been researching pregnancy, but he’d spotted the word “penitentiary” on the screen. A few hours later, going through her wastebasket, he’d found the document printed from the Illinois Department of Corrections Web site. But the ink had been too weak for him to read the text.

He launched the Web browser. Her laptop, like his, was equipped with a wireless router connected to their home’s DSL network. The browser loaded the Google home page.

He went to the browser’s address bar, to pull down a list of the last few sites that she’d visited.

The list was empty. She’d deleted the history of visited sites, too. Another dead end.

“Damn.”

He could try her cell phone. He could search through the call records and address book. And hope she’d left some information on her phone.

But he wasn’t ready to give up on her computer just yet. There had to be something of value left on there.

He lifted Coco from his lap and placed her on the floor, pushed away from the table. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed a can of Red Bull, which he drank sometimes to boost his concentration when working on a design project. To figure out his next move, he needed to kick his brain into a higher gear.

He popped the tab and guzzled the entire drink within a minute. He tossed the empty can into the garbage container.

And stopped. He stared at the trashcan, riveted.

The recycle bin.

On the laptop again, he hit the Recycle Bin icon.

The folder opened, revealing dozens of files that Rachel had assigned for deletion. In her apparent haste to leave, she had neglected to empty the bin—if she had, the files might have been gone forever—and her oversight enabled him to restore the files and examine them.

Now the question was: which of them most likely contained the information he sought?

He scrolled down the screen. The Internet Explorer files that Rachel had saved, and then sent to the Recycle Bin, were scattered throughout the folder. There were at least five of them, but only one piqued Joshua’s interest.

It was from the Illinois Department of Corrections Web Site.

He highlighted the file, and selected the Restore option. The file vanished, returned to its original location on the hard drive. He found it again by going to the My Documents main folder; it was stored in the “Miscellaneous” subfolder.

He double-clicked it.

Within a couple seconds, the file opened in the Internet Explorer window.

“Oh, shit,” Joshua said.

A man named Dexter Bates glared back at him.