A Short Story

Chapter 7

FOUR MONTHS LATER

“Hello and welcome back to the channel. My name is Arthur T. Wilcox, best-selling True Crime novelist-turned-conspiracy podcaster. If this is your first time, I just wanna say thanks for stopping by and if this video intrigues you even a little bit, please like and subscribe. While you’re at it, don’t forget to hit that notification bell so you don’t miss a morsel of all that’s discussed here. Sometimes we get to the bottom of an issue, sometimes we don’t. What matters most, however, is the truth and getting it out there.”

Arthur leaned back in his chair, tapped a few keys on his keyboard, then clicked his mouse. Suzanne’s video popped up on the top left edge of the screen, her bright eyes on the camera and a gesticulating hand above the wheel. “Four months ago,” he said, pointing at the screenshot, “while on a business trip to a small Midwest college town, Suzanne Price posted this.”

Arthur played the footage.  

Suzanne displayed her anxiety-ridden fingers, then spoke of a terrifying confrontation that happened moments earlier. The camera swiveled to the illuminated marquee of the now-famous Side/Street Mart. Arthur took a drag of the cigarette from his off-camera ashtray and rested his elbow on his desk. He twiddled the nicotine stick in his fifty-four-year-old fingers and studied the screen through the thick-rimmed prescription glasses.

He paused it as Suzanne stopped herself from saying the town name. Her mouth was open, baring her perfect white top row of teeth, frozen in time. “Take note of the backseat, if you will, the contents or lack thereof.” He took a short drag of the cigarette, then resumed the video.

Suzanne checked the passenger seat, then went on to describe Eric Milton as a ‘creep’ and an ‘animal.’ Arthur’s index finger lingered over the pause button. He took another long drag, blew a cloud of smoke over his shoulder at his backdrop—a navy blue King-size comforter blanket he had clipped to a large clothing rack with wheels—and waited for his next cue.

Twenty-five seconds later, Arthur paused the video. “You hear that?” He checked the slow-rolling chat. “Anyone catch it? Or should I play on? She says it again very soon. I just wanted to see if you guys caught it the first time.”

He watched the chat, then nodded when someone guessed right.

“Uh huh, yep, one guy got it,” he said, nodding again, “and another guy, and another,” then he answered. “Two-year-old son. Ms. Price claimed she had in her possession a young toddler. And if you’ve been paying attention to this story, you’d know that isn’t true. Now, I don’t know why she said it. My theory is that it was to garner sympathy from her audience, whom I’d assume are mostly women and gays, but I can’t know that for sure. None of us can.”

Arthur resumed the video, and let it play through to the end.

“For those of you just joining,” he said, knocking ash into the tray and taking another drag, “that video surpassed two and a half million views by the end of that week. Unfortunately, the self-ascribed ‘boss-bitch,’” he said, using air quotes, “never got to bask in her celebrity. I can’t say if that’s a good thing based on all we’ve learned since she went missing. For one, Eric Milton, the Side/Street Mart owner has been nothing but cooperative. He’s handed over all footage from that night, both inside the store and out, to the local authorities and, to this day, is in contact with the Price family.”

Arthur set the half-smoked butt in the ashtray and pulled up a new video. A black and white exterior shot of the Side/Street Mart parking lot. The white time stamp at the top right displayed 2022-10-27 (Oct 27, 2022) and 20:17:43 (8:17 pm)

“This is the security footage taken outside, according to the timestamp, moments before Suzanne released her original clip. Now, before you, third-wave feminists, girl-power AI bots, and white-knight simp-trolls start belly-aching in the comments, just know this video is in the public domain. You don’t have to watch it here.”

He played the video.

At 8:18 pm, Suzanne left the store with a plastic sack, stopped, and dug a hand into her left pocket. The back lights flashed. She approached the passenger side, opened the door, and set the bag inside. She closed the door, then walked around to the driver’s side.

At 8:20 pm, a dark-haired man with a small bald patch left the store. “That is Eric Milton,” Arthur commented, “the store owner.”

Eric held up a black square. Suzanne glanced back, threw up her hands, and met him where he stood. She took the square (which looked like a phone), touched a palm to her face, and nodded. They conversed a bit. Suzanne nodded again, then Eric pointed at something in the distance.

At 8:21 pm, Eric went back inside the store and Suzanne climbed into her minivan.

Arthur paused the video. “Let’s break this down a bit. Eric Milton returned what appeared to be a cell phone to the now-missing Ms. Price. And from a respectful distance, might I add. He didn’t follow her the way she claimed, nor did he confront her. He barely left the stoop. Also, they were alone. Not a child in sight. Someone’s lying…and I don’t think it’s Eric.”

He resumed the tape. Suzanne hopped into the minivan and the time stamp naturally ticked by. “This goes on for about ten more minutes, which I’m guessing is how long it took Suzanne to make and post her rant.” He scrolled the footage ahead, then stopped when the brake lights lit up. They lit up twice, three times, then nothing.

Moments later, Suzanne left the minivan and jogged back to the store.

Arthur fast-forwarded the video, then let it play normally.

At 8:32 pm, a low-riding white Buick pulled into the parking lot. The driver—a black male in a dark sweatshirt and jeans—hopped out as Eric, led by Suzanne, stepped outside. The men gave each other a nod, spoke a bit, and went their separate ways. Suzanne opened the driver’s door and offered it to Eric, who hopped in.

The brake lights lit up, then went black. They lit up again, then went black again.

Arthur minimized the video. “If you wanna watch the rest. It’s literally everywhere, a mere Google search away.” He clicked his mouse twice and pulled up another clip of security footage, taken inside the store, from a high angle behind the counter, facing the door. “Here’s where things start to get interesting.”

Arthur played the tape.

At 8:54 pm, Suzanne faced Eric and his daughter behind the counter, holding a black bag. They all stood in silence. Suzanne stepped back, looked back at the parking lot, then pulled the phone from her back pocket and held it up as if she were recording.      

Eric raised his hand.

Suzanne set the bag down, angled the phone down, and charged the counter. She stopped just a foot shy of it, steadied herself, then jumped back unprovoked into a shelf filled with cream-filled pastries and bags of powdered donuts.

Arthur grinned involuntarily then paused the clip. “Sorry for laughing, but this reminds me of those fake injury compilations. The ones where soccer players dramatically writhe in pain after an opposing player barely touches them to garner a foul. That’s all I see. That’s literally all I see.”

He played the rest of the clip. Suzanne crawled to her feet, punched herself in the face six times, and hurled herself into the candy aisle. She shoved her phone across the floor, skidding it, then got up, retrieved the phone, and charged the employees again. Halfway there, she slipped on a spot near the yellow hazard sign and crashed headfirst into the counter.

“I don’t think that was meant to happen,” Arthur chimed in, speaking as Suzanne crawled onto her knees, and wobbled around on the floor. Eric held back Nia, who appeared agitated, then went to help Suzanne, but his hand was slapped away. “That’s why,” he added, “that’s why I don’t think it was intentional.” Suzanne took her phone and the bag, left the store, then sped out of the parking lot, trampling over a block of grass and veering off into the street.

—

Four hours later, a little after 1:15 am, Arthur T. Wilcox’s phone pinged.

It was an email with a paper clip attachment. The sender was anonymous and “WARMER” was in the subject line.

Arthur turned down the volume of his television set, took a long drag of his almost-finished cigarette, and opened the email. The attachment was a 20-second-long clip. The screenshot showed the front door to his apartment building, the tiny lobby (with a five-slot mailbox on the right wall) that led to a long staircase, and a pair of fingertips at the bottom left corner.

Arthur played the video.

The fingers moved to the center of the shot, closed into a fist, then stopped at the wrist. On the wrist was a digital watch. It flashed 8:46 pm. The shot faced the left, showed a closing pizza shop, then faced a busy gas station a block away on the right. The cameraman (or woman) opened the door, stepped inside the empty lobby and focused on the five-slot mailbox.

The camera approached the mailbox, and turned to Box 5 with the initials A.W. in black marker as the hand with the watch slipped a white envelope inside the slot.

And then the clip ended.

Arthur left his apartment, then returned, a few minutes later, with the white envelope. He tossed it on the counter, heard a soft click, then gripped it with both hands, feeling it to get an idea. A moment later, he tore it open and dumped the contents into his hand.

It was a brass key taped to a blank white index card. Arthur studied the key, then checked the other side of the card. Written in black ballpoint pen was the address to a post office box fifty miles north.

Chapter 8

Arthur didn’t sleep that night. He tried, but the anticipation was overwhelming. He had never been a patient man. If a problem arose (or anything else of a similar matter), he couldn’t just sit and wait for the appropriate time, he needed to deal with it immediately. Whoever had left the key must have known that.

Arthur finally passed out at his desk a little after 4 am, and awoke at 7:15 am to the loud blaring alarm clock in his bedroom. He exhaustingly pulled himself to his feet, subdued the alarm clock, then pounded an energy drink from the back of the fridge.

At 8:06 am, Arthur wearily entered the post office, his exhaustion beyond palpable, yet the anticipation of what awaited him there jolted him awake. His sleepy red eyes and the dark brown cowlick behind his left ear were enough to pull in stares from a few of the elderly patrons waiting in line to send off their packages. Arthur nodded at those with raised eyebrows, then ventured past them to the door that led to the Post Office boxes.

A few minutes later, he found the right box, 5734, then looked over his shoulder.

An older man, probably fifteen years his senior, had entered, approached from behind, then made a hard left to box 5676. Arthur pulled the phone from his back pocket and pretended he had just received a long text message. Mumbling nonsense words softly to himself, he watched the elderly man slip a similar brass key into the box, remove a handful of colorful envelopes, then lock the box and leave the room.

Arthur counted to five, then slipped the phone into his back pocket and opened the box.

It was a red zip drive. 2 GB.

He pocketed the zip drive, locked the box, then spent the next fifty minutes pondering what could possibly be waiting for him as he drove back home.

The only item on the zip drive was a single manila file folder: Blue Minivan. He fired up a fresh cigarette, stared at the screen for what felt like forever, then paced the room. He hated to admit it, but there was a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. Like a chunk of concrete weighing him down, telling him that whatever was waiting for him would more than likely be a definite game-changer. Good or bad, he couldn’t discern yet, but his interest was piqued.  

The cigarette offered him some solace, but not enough. He craved that familiar “fuck it” feeling. That subtle “you might as well do it,” whisper, urging him to succumb, reminiscent of the kind recovering alcoholics hear as they gaze at that first shot of Bourbon after months of sobriety. It echoed the same voice that tempts porn addicts as they find themselves idle and isolated behind an open, glowing, laptop.

Arthur finished the cigarette, then retreated to his bedroom. There, he meticulously packed a quarter-ounce of cannabis into rolling paper and ignited it, seeking respite in a haze of smoke.

Nine and a half minutes later, he clicked on the folder, then the single .mp4 file.

It was a video taken from what appeared to be a tablet. Size: 465 MB. Video Length: 14:47.

Arthur pressed Play.

A 7-year-old girl with long, flowing, brown hair watched the bottom of the screen, smiled, pressed something off-screen, then stepped back in the front yard as the intro to 90’s boyband song started to play. She grooved to the opening beat, shaking her hips, then as the first verse started, erupted into a full-on choreographed dance.

Arthur crossed his arms, set his elbows on the desk, and leaned forward. “Okay, so…what do you want me to see? What am I looking for?”

In the distance, beyond the sidewalk, a red pickup truck passed.

The girl was flexible, kicking her legs into the air with ease and twirling behind her like a somewhat seasoned ballerina as the verse transitioned into the familiar-sounding chorus. A lyric into the second verse, the girl’s dance was interrupted by her mother’s voice.

Dinner was ready.   

The 7-year-old reluctantly looked at the camera, then approached, closing the distance. However, just as she moved to end the recording, a joyful cry, off-camera and to the left, pulled her attention. Her 4-year-old little brother, with blonde hair and blue eyes, excitedly met the girl where she stood and presented a fascinating rock he had just discovered.

The two stood in child-like wonder, studying the rock, then eventually retreated indoors, unknowingly leaving the recording untouched. For the next seven minutes, nothing happened. The camera captured a gentle sway of the wind over a cluster of trees next to the driveway and a young cardinal hopping from one branch to another.

Then, a blue minivan leisurely passed by.

Intrigued, Arthur halted the video, double-checked the name of the folder, then re-winded and enlarged the frame to reveal the right-side profile of the male driver. Following some swift keystrokes, he captured a screenshot of the image on his computer screen.

At that moment, a blue Telegram chat bubble—the username UNKNOWN—unexpectedly popped up. “You see it yet?”

Arthur was skeptical, but typed, asking “Who are you?”

“Did. You. See. It?”

“See what?”

“The driver. Did you see his face?”

Arthur’s heartbeat quickened, a sudden mixture of excitement and apprehension. “I caught a glimpse, why?”

“We should meet.”

Arthur ignored the request. “Do you know something about him? The driver?”

“Today. 4 pm. West Franklin Mall. Movie Theater Entrance. Second Floor.”

“How will I know who to look for?”

“I’ll find you.”

Arthur admired the concealed messaging, reminding him of the spy thriller genre which he enjoyed, but his curiosity got the better of him. He typed out “Tell me something up front first,” then slapped ENTER. Arthur watched the checkmarks at the bottom right double, then turn blue (a clear signal the message had been read).

The message disappeared.

Arthur scrunched his brow, then typed out, asking “Come on. What’s the secret?”

The message was read, and then deleted.

Arthur waited a moment, then typed out a small paragraph, asking about the driver of the blue minivan, and how they got a hold of his residential address. Yet just before he clicked SEND at the bottom of the screen, the blinking cursor at the end of the paragraph backspaced on its own. Until there was nothing left.

He retyped the message, adding to it. Midway through, it was highlighted and deleted.

And suddenly, the unknown correspondent returned. “STOP!”

Arthur took his chance. “Why?”

“You’ll know the truth soon.”

Twenty seconds later, all three messages disappeared without a trace.