swivels in the chair, picks up the mug, takes a
cautious sip. He studies me with a good internist’s eyes.
“You look better,” he says, rendering judgment.
62
Chris Jordan
“I am, thank you.”
“Proprietary software,” he explains, nodding at the screen.
“If Kelly left her password anywhere on the hard drive,
we’ll find it, and if need be the software will crack it. Pre-
liminary search indicates numerous references to both Seth
and S-Man, so once I get the files open, we should know a
lot more.”
“You found his last name?” I say. “That’s great. I’ll call
the county cops. I mean police.”
“Cops will do,” he says with a slight grin. “No, not his last
name. Not yet. Just a search engine tracer showing there are
references buried within the files. E-mail folders, HTML
folders, chat room folders.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to. It’s just the way computers organize
themselves. Each folder has a name and a location. I was able
to list the folders by title, but can’t open them without the
password. If this particular software doesn’t get us there, I
have other ways.” Making it sound almost ominous. Like no
mere microchip would dare defy him.
“So you’re, um, a computer expert?”
“In a limited way, yes. As you say, I’m something of a
geek.” He smiles, letting me know that geekness doesn’t
offend him. “Actually, for the last several years before I left
the bureau, that was my primary role, overseeing the devel-
opment of software applications.”
“You don’t look old enough to be retired,” I point out.
“I resigned under special circumstances,” he responds, in
a way that shuts down that particular line of inquiry.
Retired or fired, gunslinger or geek, it doesn’t matter. If
the big man manages to get a line on the mysterious Seth,
Trapped
63
and Kelly’s location, I don’t care what his specialty is or was,
or why he left the FBI.
“Have a seat,” he suggests. “I need to get some background.”
There’s only one chair in Kelly’s room, so I perch on her
bed. Amazingly enough, this stranger is offering me a seat
in my own house. Not that he’s trying to be offensive—far
from it. He’s focused on a task, on helping me, and for that
I’m grateful. Still, I can’t think of the last time a single man
has been in my home, let alone one of the bedrooms.
No ring. I noticed. Not that I’m even slightly interested—
every fiber of my being is focused on getting what I need to
find Kelly.
Shane glances at the clock on the screen, seems satisfied
with the progress, then takes a small notebook from his brief-
case. “First things first,” he begins. “Where is Kelly’s father
in all this?”
“Nowhere,” I respond, a little too fast.
“I take it you’re no longer married?”
“I’m a single mom.”
He nods. Not a judgmental nod, just noting another fact.
“Has the father been informed that she’s missing?”
“There is no father,” I tell him, a flush rising into my
cheeks. “Can we leave it at that?”
“For now,” he says, conceding nothing. “So. How do you
make your living?”
“Weddings,” I tell him. “I design and make wedding
gowns, bridal gowns, bridesmaids gowns. Or anyhow, that’s
how I got into the business. I still do custom gowns when re-
quested, but mostly we work with a couple of different gown
manufacturers. Small specialized factories. We do the
fittings, they do the sewing.”
He makes a note. “So you’re in sales.”
64
Chris Jordan
I shrug. “Bridal design, we like to say.”
“Dissatisfied customers?”
“It happens. But no one has been upset enough to take it
out on my daughter.”
Duly noted.
“You’re sure about that?” he asks without looking up from
his notebook.
“Last time it happened I refunded their deposit, simple.
That was more than a year ago.”
Mrs. Hampton-Barlow of the Sag Harbor Hampton-
Barlows.
cautious sip. He studies me with a good internist’s eyes.
“You look better,” he says, rendering judgment.
62
Chris Jordan
“I am, thank you.”
“Proprietary software,” he explains, nodding at the screen.
“If Kelly left her password anywhere on the hard drive,
we’ll find it, and if need be the software will crack it. Pre-
liminary search indicates numerous references to both Seth
and S-Man, so once I get the files open, we should know a
lot more.”
“You found his last name?” I say. “That’s great. I’ll call
the county cops. I mean police.”
“Cops will do,” he says with a slight grin. “No, not his last
name. Not yet. Just a search engine tracer showing there are
references buried within the files. E-mail folders, HTML
folders, chat room folders.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to. It’s just the way computers organize
themselves. Each folder has a name and a location. I was able
to list the folders by title, but can’t open them without the
password. If this particular software doesn’t get us there, I
have other ways.” Making it sound almost ominous. Like no
mere microchip would dare defy him.
“So you’re, um, a computer expert?”
“In a limited way, yes. As you say, I’m something of a
geek.” He smiles, letting me know that geekness doesn’t
offend him. “Actually, for the last several years before I left
the bureau, that was my primary role, overseeing the devel-
opment of software applications.”
“You don’t look old enough to be retired,” I point out.
“I resigned under special circumstances,” he responds, in
a way that shuts down that particular line of inquiry.
Retired or fired, gunslinger or geek, it doesn’t matter. If
the big man manages to get a line on the mysterious Seth,
Trapped
63
and Kelly’s location, I don’t care what his specialty is or was,
or why he left the FBI.
“Have a seat,” he suggests. “I need to get some background.”
There’s only one chair in Kelly’s room, so I perch on her
bed. Amazingly enough, this stranger is offering me a seat
in my own house. Not that he’s trying to be offensive—far
from it. He’s focused on a task, on helping me, and for that
I’m grateful. Still, I can’t think of the last time a single man
has been in my home, let alone one of the bedrooms.
No ring. I noticed. Not that I’m even slightly interested—
every fiber of my being is focused on getting what I need to
find Kelly.
Shane glances at the clock on the screen, seems satisfied
with the progress, then takes a small notebook from his brief-
case. “First things first,” he begins. “Where is Kelly’s father
in all this?”
“Nowhere,” I respond, a little too fast.
“I take it you’re no longer married?”
“I’m a single mom.”
He nods. Not a judgmental nod, just noting another fact.
“Has the father been informed that she’s missing?”
“There is no father,” I tell him, a flush rising into my
cheeks. “Can we leave it at that?”
“For now,” he says, conceding nothing. “So. How do you
make your living?”
“Weddings,” I tell him. “I design and make wedding
gowns, bridal gowns, bridesmaids gowns. Or anyhow, that’s
how I got into the business. I still do custom gowns when re-
quested, but mostly we work with a couple of different gown
manufacturers. Small specialized factories. We do the
fittings, they do the sewing.”
He makes a note. “So you’re in sales.”
64
Chris Jordan
I shrug. “Bridal design, we like to say.”
“Dissatisfied customers?”
“It happens. But no one has been upset enough to take it
out on my daughter.”
Duly noted.
“You’re sure about that?” he asks without looking up from
his notebook.
“Last time it happened I refunded their deposit, simple.
That was more than a year ago.”
Mrs. Hampton-Barlow of the Sag Harbor Hampton-
Barlows.
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