Chapter 2

Maisy Farley scrollsthrough the emails in the Farley Files inbox. Her fingernails tap out a rhythm as she opens, skims, deletes. She spends just a few seconds on each message, scanning the words only long enough to ascertain the gist before moving on to the next. She’s been at this task for nearly two hours, and so far, has little to show for it.

After raising her arms overhead in a quick stretch, she breathes out a sigh and runs her hand over the unruly knot that barely contains her blonde curls before glancing across the small table at her producer. Jordana has taken on the task of weeding through the podcast’s social media messages.

Bless that girl,she thinks. She’s warned her that while they’re both equally unlikely to come across a tip with the makings of a juicy story, Jordana’s far more apt to encounter the unsolicited, very much unwanted pictures of male genitalia that their listeners inexplicably seem to think they crave. She grimaces at the thought.

“You finding anything, sugar?” she asks.

Jordana meets her eye with a wry expression. “You mean other than dick pics and offers to be your sugar daddy?”

“Yeah, other than that.”

“Just the stray cold call marketing request.”

“Do any of the sugar daddies seem promising?” she deadpans.

The younger woman’s eyes go wide for an instant, then she giggles. “I thought you were serious for a second.”

“I noticed.” Maisy raises her arms overhead and arches her back, stretching again. “You know, I thought the tip line at the TV station was a bust, but at least we got enthusiastic cranks. I haven’t even seen so much as an Elvis sighting or an alien abduction.”

Jordana laughs again, softly, then wearily pushes her chair back. She rolls her neck from side to side, then pops her knuckles, pulling on the joints one by one.

“Don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

Maisy pauses while Jordana watches her face. Her mama always told her it would give her arthritis and big, swollen, ugly knuckles. But she doubts that’s true. And she suspects Jordan’s not overly concerned with attractiveness of her knuckles.

“It sounds like it hurts,” she says lamely.

“Well, it doesn’t. It’s a relief. I’m releasing built-up synovial fluid, Maisy. The cracking noise is bubbles popping.”

“Synovial fluid?” she parrots.

“It’s a non-Newtonian fluid that cushions joints.”

She stares at the college student. “Like oobleck?”

“Not exactly. But, yeah, they’re both non-Newtonian fluids.”

They’re acquainted with oobleck thanks to the children of a mutual friend. Sasha’s twins delight in making the squishy suspension. But Jordana sounds positively professorial. And that reminds her.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your graduation or something? Celebrating, at least?”

Jordana flicks her hand, but Maisy persists.

“Don’t wave it off. It’s a big deal. You’re graduating from college. Just because you’re a working woman doesn’t mean you can’t cut loose.”

“I’m not interested in partying, Maisy. I’m interested in finding our next case.”

Jordana is the oldest twenty-two-year-old Maisy knows. She’s also the only twenty-two-year-old Maisy knows.

“This isn’t exactly fun,” she points out.

“No,” Jordana agrees readily. “It’s the opposite of fun.” She blows out a frustrated breath. “I’m not saying I disagree with your reasoning, but your guidelines have forced us into a narrow niche.”

Maisy nods. It’s true, she knows. But her guidelines are well-reasoned: no serial killers; no gory recreations of murders; and, at least for now, no attempts to exonerate the wrongfully incarcerated. Neither she nor Jordana has any interest in glorifying some killer who has a fan club complete with T-shirts, merch, and taglines, and they agree they never want to profit off the pain of crime victims or re-victimize their friends and family members. They part ways on the issue of the imprisoned. Jordana believes her background working for a law firm and Maisy’s sharp investigative skills make them uniquely suited to look into claims from prisoners who insist they haven’t committed the crimes they’ve been found guilty of.

Maisy’s reminded her producer at least a dozen times that she’s not ruling out an innocence season: she hasn’t said she’ll never do a season that looks into a conviction. She sees the value in such podcasts. But.

But the first season of the podcast was emotional—even draining. Sure, they’d helped a widow prove that her ex-husband hadn’t committed suicide but had, instead, been murdered. In the process, Maisy’d tangled with a powerful billionaire, dredged up secrets that put her closest friends in jeopardy, had her home broken into, and was nearly murdered for her efforts. It was equal parts exhilarating, terrifying, and exhausting. And completely worth it. But it’s a hard act to follow, and if Maisy wants to keep doing this for the foreseeable future,—and she does—she has to make the work both valuable and sustainable. The Farley Files has to be something she can be proud of.

As if Jordana’s reading her mind, she says, “Lots of good came out of the first season. Most podcasts don’t win awards for their first season. I know we need to choose our next subject with care.”

“Right. And yes, the Farley Files was a freshman year hit, which reflects well on both of us professionally. But I think we also enjoyed some personal benefits.”

“Like your friendship with Deanne and Jenna?”

“Exactly.”

Maisy somehow became close to both Deanne Lewis, the murdered man’s ex-wife, and Jenna Novak, the widow of the man who killed him and was, himself, murdered to keep him silent. It’s a strange little circle, she knows. But their connections are real.

She waits for a beat, then adds, “And like our partnership.”

Creating a podcast had been Jordana’s idea. And the college student left the law firm where she’d worked as an intern since she was thirteen to produce it. She changed the trajectory of her life for Maisy. So Maisy feels she owes it both to her listeners and to Jordana to create something with integrity in her second season, something that will help people like Deanne and Jenna. Something that will affirm the choice Jordana made. Maybe that makes her sappy and soft, but she doesn’t think so. And if it does, she doesn’t care.

Jordana flushes, pleased by the recognition. But her joy is short-lived. “We’ve got nothing. I can’t believe we’ve got nothing.”

“I know,” Maisy agrees. “We need to find a subject soon.”

Yes, she needs to be selective, but it’s been over a year since the podcast’s first season ended, and the only spots they’ve aired have been increasingly urgent invitations for listeners to send in tips. At some point, the perfect will become the enemy of the non-obsolete.

Jordana closes her laptop lid. “Ice cream break?”

Maisy almost says no. After fifteen years of television work, accounting for every spoonful of food that crosses her lips has become second nature. But she reminds herself she isn’t being judged on her looks. For the first time in her entire life, she’s being judged solely on the quality of her work. She can eat premium ice cream if she wants to, and she doesn’t owe anyone an explanation.

“Salted caramel for me, please.”

“You’re so predictable.”

Jordana leaves and returns a moment later from Maisy’s kitchen with two single-serve ice cream containers and two spoons. She passes Maisy the salted caramel and digs into the brown sugar cinnamon. They savor the treat in silence except for the occasional soft moan of pleasure, which prompts Jordana to murmur, “Your neighbors are gonna think you’re filming porn in here.”

Maisy laughs so hard she nearly chokes. After they catch their breath, they resume flipping through messages while they polish off their ice cream.

She almost misses it.

She’s in the zone, zipping through emails and scooping up ice cream, when she stops. Just before she hits delete on yet another message, her brain catches up with words she’s read and hasn’t fully processed. Before she puts it in the trash, she reopens it and reads it again, more slowly this time.

Her heart flip-flops and her voice quavers when she says, “We might have something here. It came in through the tip line form you set up.”

“Really?” Jordana’s spoon clatters to the table and she races around to peer over Maisy’s shoulder at the message on the screen:

New Message to The Farley Files Tip Line at [email protected]

Date: April 22, 2024

Subject: Thirty Years Without Answers

Ms. Farley,

Our sister, Heather Renee Ryan, vanished almost thirty years ago when she was just sixteen. She’s never been seen again. The police have never arrested a suspect in her disappearance, never recovered her body, never found her living somewhere else. Although her case is technically not closed, it’s clear to us she was written off as a runaway and nobody truly tried to find her. We need to know what happened to her. You’re our last hope.

Sincerely,

Diana Ryan, Amy Ryan Marino, Kristy Ryan Kaminski, the sisters of Heather Ryan

They stare in silence at the short message for a long moment, then Jordana exhales “A cold case. A missing teenager. Three sisters who’ve been waiting nearly three decades for answers.”

“It checks all the boxes,” Maisy says, half to herself.

“And with the anniversary of her disappearance coming up, we can generate some real interest.” Jordana’s marketing wheels are spinning.

“I want to help these women find out what happened to their sister.” Her face breaks into a wide grin. “We may have just found our second season.”

Jordana grins back for a heartbeat, then she’s all business. “I’ll do some preliminary research into the disappearance.”

Maisy frowns, but it’s a playful frown. “Now, you know I love to research. I’ll do that. Why don’t you reach out to the family and set up a meeting?”

She bobs her head. “On it.”