No way of knowing. Concentrate on the question at hand: How did Ingrid and the stranger know each other? There were several possibilities, of course, so he put them in order from most to least likely.
Most likely: work. Ingrid had worked for several Internet companies. Whoever was behind this probably worked for Fake-A-Pregnancy.com or specialized in the web—hacking or what-not—or both.
Second most likely: They met in college. They both seemed about the right age to have met on a campus and remained friendly. So maybe the answer lay at Rice University.
Third most likely: Both were from Austin, Texas.
Did this make sense? He didn’t know, but Adam went back through her friends, keeping an eye out for people who also worked on the Internet. There was a fair amount. He checked their pages. Some were blocked or had limited access, but most people don’t go on Facebook to hide. Time passed. Then he looked through her friends’ friends who worked on the Internet. And even friends of those friends. He checked out profiles and work histories, and 4:48 A.M.—he saw the time on the little digital clock on the top bar on his computer—Adam finally struck gold.
The first clue had come from the Fake-A-Pregnancy website. Under the CONTACT US link, the company listed a mailing address in Revere, Massachusetts. Adam Googled the address and found a match—a business conglomerate called Downing Place that operated various start-ups and web pages.
Now he had something.
Scouring again through Ingrid’s friends, he found someone who listed his employer as Downing Place. He clicked on his profile page. There was nothing much there, but the guy had two friends who also worked at Downing. So he clicked on their pages—and so on, until he arrived at a page belonging to a woman named Gabrielle Dunbar.
According to her ABOUT page, Gabrielle Dunbar studied business at New Jersey’s Ocean County College and in the past had attended Fair Lawn High School. She did not list a current or past employer—nothing about Downing Place or any other website—and she had not posted anything on her page in the past eight months.
What had drawn his eye was the fact that she had three “friends” who listed Downing Place as their employer. It also stated that Gabrielle Dunbar lived in Revere, Massachusetts.
So he started clicking on her page, scanning through her photo albums, when he stumbled across a picture from three years ago. It was in an album called Mobile Uploads and captioned simply HOLIDAY PARTY. It was one of those quickly-round-up-before-we-all-get-too-wasted office-party pics, where someone good-naturedly asks everyone to pose for a group shot and then e-mails it or posts it to their page. The party was held at a wood-paneled restaurant or bar. There were probably twenty or maybe thirty people in the picture, many red-faced and red-eyed from both the camera flash and the alcohol.
And there, on the far left with a beer in his hand, not looking at the camera—probably not even realizing the photograph was being taken—was the stranger.
Chapter 38
Johanna Griffin had two Havanense dogs named Starsky and Hutch. At first she didn’t want to get Havaneses. They were considered a toy breed, and Johanna had grown up with Great Danes and considered small dogs, please forgive her, semi-rodents. But Ricky had insisted and damned if he wasn’t right. Johanna had owned dogs all her life, and these two were as lovable as all get-out.
Normally, Johanna liked taking Starsky and Hutch for a walk early in the morning. She prided herself on being a good sleeper. Whatever horror or issues might be plaguing her daily life, she never let them past her bedroom door. That was her rule. Worry it all to death in the kitchen or living room—but when you cross that portal, you flick a switch. That was it. The problems were gone.
But two things had been robbing her of sleep. One was Ricky. Maybe it was because he’d put on a few pounds or maybe it was just age, but his once tolerable snoring had become a constant, grating buzz saw. He had tried various remedies—a strip, a pillow, some over-the-counter medication—but none had worked. It had reached the stage where they’d been debating separate sleeping quarters, but that felt too much like a white flag to Johanna. She’d just have to plow through it until a solution popped up.
Second, of course, was Heidi.
Her friend visited Johanna in her sleep. It wasn’t in a gory, bloody way. Heidi didn’t turn into a ghostly figure or whisper, “Avenge me.” Nothing like that. Johanna really couldn’t say what exactly occurred in her Heidi-centric dreams. The dreams felt normal, like real life, and Heidi was there and laughing and smiling and they were having a good time, and then at some point, Johanna remembered what had happened, that Heidi had, in fact, been murdered. Then panic would take hold of Johanna. The dream would start ending, and Johanna would reach out and desperately try to grab her friend, as though she could keep Heidi there, alive—as though Johanna, if she tried hard enough, could undo the murder and Heidi would be okay.