Chapter 24

Bastian listensto the second episode of The Farley Files for a second time, and then a third, as he rhythmically folds the clean laundry. He replays one portion over and over. His heart races and his hands shake. He sets aside a pile of Chloe’s sweaters and crosses the dim basement to the storage locker. There, behind the Christmas decorations and an unreasonable number of boxes filled with finger paint art projects from Emilie”s preschool years, he unearths a small brown shoebox while Kristy Ryan Kaminski’s soft, halting voice fills his ears.

One day, Heather came back from the mall with this pink pager she’d rented from a kiosk. It was used, and someone had glued a rhinestone sticker in the shape of a capital letter C in one corner. I told her she could cover it up with a different sticker, but she said she liked it. She decided the C stood for ‘clandestine.’

Chloe”s name is scrawled across the box’s lid in bold marker. It contains the sum total of the belongings his wife had in her possession when she turned up in Montreal as a teenage Jane Doe. As he lifts the lid, his pulse pounds as though he”s doing something wrong. Chloe has never said the box is off-limits. They’ve looked through it together several times over the years. But this feels different. Clandestine, even.

Chloe’s in her office on a call with a client. He can hear the soft drone of her words through the vents. Emilie”s at the park with some of her neighborhood friends. Nobody will interrupt him.

He eases the lid off the box and paws through its meager contents until he finds what he”s looking for and removes it from the box. He balances it in his hand. A pink plastic rectangle with a small display window in the front and a peeling rhinestone letter C sticker in the bottom left corner.

How can this be? How does Chloe have Heather Ryan’s pager?

He should return it to the box, hide it away even deeper on the shelves, and pretend he never opened it. He almost does. Then he remembers the way Kristy’s voice broke voice as she described the life she hopes her missing sister is living.

I hope she’s living in a ski town in Vermont or Colorado or somewhere, schussing down the slopes. And I hope she hears this and calls us so I can tell her I still love her and I miss her. That’s what I hope.

Bastian stands frozen, unable to decide, for a long moment. Then he slips the pager into his pocket and mounts the stairs to the first floor to wait for Chloe to finish her call. They need to talk.

Chloe turnsthe pink pager over in her hands. She flips it front to back, back to front, while she studies her husband’s worried face. Finally, she shakes her head. “Why did you dig this out of the storage unit?”

He’s unnerving her. His brow is drawn, his skin is pale, and he vibrates with jangly energy.

“I need you to listen to something,” he tells her, as he takes his phone out of his pocket.

He was pacing outside her office door when she ended her client call. While she’d like to suggest moving this conversation to somewhere they can sit, she senses his urgency. She leans against the door frame instead.

“Okay.”

He hits play, and it takes a moment for her to recognize the intro music. It’s Maisy Farley’s podcast. “Bastian, I don’t really?—”

“Shh,” he shushes her.

Chloe arches an eyebrow but presses her lips together and falls silent as the music fades and the episode is introduced as ‘Episode Two, The Pink Pager.’ She frowns down at the pink pager in her hands, then casts a puzzled look at Bastian.

He fast forwards, saying, “At some point, you should listen to the entire episode, but this is the part you really need to hear.”

They lower their heads over the phone in his hand and listen together as a woman whom Maisy identifies as Heather Ryan’s youngest sister speaks in a halting, quiet voice.

One day, Heather came back from the mall with this pink pager she’d rented from a kiosk. It was used, and someone had glued a rhinestone sticker in the shape of a capital letter C in one corner. I told her she could cover it up with a different sticker, but she said she liked it. She decided the C stood for ‘clandestine.’ Then she gave me the number and swore me to secrecy. I promised not to tell anyone.

Bastian clicks pause and gives her a steady look. She traces the C with her index finger, the raised bumps of the rhinestone sticker serving as a tactile reminder to ground herself in the here and now.

“It has to be a coincidence,” she finally says.

He lowers his chin. “Chloe.”

“It could be,” she insists. “But if it isn’t one—if this is Heather Ryan’s pager—I don’t know how I got it.” She’s shaking.

“I’m sorry, ma chérie. I’m not doing this to upset you, but please listen.”

He fast forwards again and plays another portion of the podcast.

… I hope she hears this and calls us so I can tell her I still love her and I miss her. That’s what I hope.

Kristy Ryan Kaminski’s plaintive words make Chloe’s heart squeeze. The podcast ends, and Bastian stows the phone back in his pocket.

Chloe strives to keep her voice steady. “It’s tragic. It is. But I don’t understand what you think this means.”

“I think it means we need to call Maisy and tell her you were in contact with Heather Ryan.”

“But I don’t know that I was,” she argues. “Maybe she left this pager somewhere, and I picked it up. Maybe someone hurt her, then threw it away, and I found it. Maybe I bought it. How can we know when I don’t remember meeting her?”

“Did you get any pages?”

She shakes her head. “By the time my memory came back, it was deactivated, just a piece of plastic. I don’t even know why I kept it.”

This last part is a lie. She kept it because it’s a connection to the life she doesn’t remember, the life she lived before Montreal. A dead pager isn’t much, but it’s something. And when you’re awash in not knowing, you’ll grasp onto any comfort, no matter how small.

Bastian gives her a close look. “These people are in pain, Chloe. Even though you don’t know anything, the pager could be helpful to their search.”

“Maybe. Or it might just add to their pain.”

She knows what he’s about to say before he says it, and she knows he’s right. She, of all people, can’t deny Heather Ryan’s family the possibility of even the smallest comfort.

“I think that’s the chance we have to take,” he says.

She shoves the pager back into his hands. “Call Maisy Farley. Tell her you think your wife has Heather Ryan’s pager.”

“You want me to call her? But your English is much better.”

“This whole situation makes me feel unsettled. I’m afraid … I don’t want to end up spiraling.”

He understands what she’s afraid to articulate. He pulls her into an embrace and strokes her hair. “I’ll make the call.”