Staring at the email, I tried to grasp what I was reading.
“That can’t mean—it’s not possible—”
“Seven years old,” Becca said with a sob in her voice. She jabbed the screen so hard that the monitor wobbled. “That’s what this means. That’s what this fucker is saying. She’s seven years old and she’s—she’s—” Becca burst into hiccoughy sobs.
“Jesus,” I said, and for what might have been the first time in my life, that name actually sounded like a prayer coming out of my mouth. I didn’t really believe in God, but if there was a God, I figured taking care of little kids should be at the top of his list. “Ok, let’s think about this. We’re overreacting, maybe. There’s got to be some sort of explanation.”
“The explanation,” Becca said, “is that Mr. Warbrath was a sick, sick piece of shit. The explanation is that he’s not just digging up child porn. He’s not just rooting through the nastiest garbage humans have ever cooked up. He’s—Vie, he’s been having sex with kids. Or he wants to. He’s planning on it. That’s what this message means.”
“Maybe it means—” I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t even try to come up with an alternative that made sense. Cash only. That was pretty clear. That meant that the transaction had to be in person. That meant it wasn’t a video, it wasn’t a picture. Those were horrible enough. Those were already about the lowest things someone could do, to take advantage of a child in that way. But this—I realized my hands were crushing the foam padding of the office chair, and a moment later the board running down the back of the chair snapped.
“He’s dead,” Becca said. “That’s the only good thing. That fucker, that sick, horrible old man. I’m glad he’s dead. I’m glad. I’m glad!” Her voice had risen to warbling pitch so high that it barely registered. Tottering away from the chair, Becca broke into sobs again, and this time I put my arms around her and held her.
My own eyes were wet, and it took me a long time before the shakiness ended. Even when it did, I felt like I was looking at everything from a mile away. Becca and I sat on the twin bed, and Becca dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. Silver makeup streaked along my vest and shirt, and when Becca noticed, she clucked and tried to wipe it away with her thumb. I seized her hand instead.
“It’s ok.”
“It’s not ok,” she said. “It will never come out, and I knew that. I’ve known it ever since I started wearing this stupid silver eyeshadow when I was twelve. But I keep wearing it, right? I keep wearing it because I’ve been playing some little-girl game about being big and tough and brave.”
“You are tough and brave,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Even if you aren’t that big.”
“You only say that because you’re built like a truck.”
“Right.”
“And not a normal truck. Like a garbage truck, or some shit like that.”
“Thanks.”
She cried again, then, but it was softer now, and when she’d finished, she said, “I guess I knew there was stuff like this in the world, but I could always put it away and not have to think about it. That shows what kind of person I am, right? I’d rather pretend it wasn’t there than have to deal with an ugly reality.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “You faced a lot of ugliness when we started looking for River. You went as deep into that craziness as anyone else, and you stayed strong the whole time. This, though . . .”
“This is worse.”
“Yeah.”
“I thought Mr. Big Empty was a monster,” she said. “I thought River was a monster. I don’t remember if I ever said that, but I thought it. I used that word.”
“River was a monster, in his own way. And Mr. Big Empty—well, he is definitely a monster. Think about what he did to Samantha: the cutting, the burning, the days of despair and agony.”
With a shiver, Becca nodded. “I know. But these people, whoever they are—there’s nothing like them in the world. Nothing as awful, I mean.”
“Then let’s find them and stop them.”
Becca quirked a tiny smile. “I thought we were trying to solve Mr. Warbrath’s murder, but I realize I don’t really care who killed him. He deserved to die. Finding these assholes, on the other hand—well, that could be my life’s fucking work.”
“The first question: why would they risk sending this information over email?”
“I already told you,” Becca said. “It’s ProtonMail. They’re one of the best encrypted mail services out there. Everything is encrypted on the user end; that means that even if ProtonMail wanted to hack into your account—say, if the government got a warrant, even though they’re based in Switzerland and that would never happen, but just for the sake of example—they couldn’t do it. It’s about as secure a way to communicate as possible.”
“Unless you have user error,” I said.
She smiled. “Like someone leaving their computer on and their email account signed-in. Everybody does it; we all think that we’re the exception, that we’re safe, etc.”
“And the email doesn’t really have anything explicitly incriminating. That abbreviations, 7yof, that’s pretty clear with a little context, but there’s no way to know who sent the email or where this stuff is going to happen. I don’t even know if it would be enough to charge Mr. Warbrath with anything.”
“Bringing us back to the question of who killed him and how they knew.”
“And why,” I said.
“No,” Becca shook her head. “The why is very clear. But you are wrong about one thing. We have a clue as to the sender.” She shifted back to the computer and clicked the mouse. “We have their email address, at least.” Her eyes widened as she looked at the information on the screen. “Oh, Vie. You won’t believe this.”
When I looked at the screen, I felt the floor drop out from under me. The sender’s address was simple: sales. But it was the domain that made me feel like I’d stepped one-foot onto a carousel that was moving at light speed. The email had come from [email protected].
“Belshazzar’s Feast,” I whispered.