After Casey saw Alan's face, and prying for a good minute and a half, he cut her off to ask, "How often do you use the calendar on here, Casey?"
She looked puzzled, and answered, "All the time."
He scanned the most recent emails: one to her father, dated a week ago, that was about her disappointment with not getting to see him for the holiday break.
An idea coming to him, he switched to the contacts pane, and found contact information for Amy. It only listed her first and last name, email, and phone number but it was enough.
Casey continued asking him questions but he ignored them, continuing with his trail of thought, opening her internet browser. One of the tabs automatically loaded to her Facebook account, and he clicked on it, finding a chat window open. Emily Davis was the contact. Scrolling up, skimming past the bits of information he didn't care about, he found the confirmation he needed.
Emily Davis: I heard Derek was going out with Amy tonight
Casey McDonald: He just left, and don't you mean staying IN?
Casey McDonald: Maybe I should call her parents and tell them they need to go home early, can you imagine the LOOK on his face if they walked in?
Emily Davis: Ooh, that's evil. he'd have to come home early…and probably prank you again
Casey McDonald: Yeah, Derek home early, NO THANKS! I doubt he'll even make curfew…but I have homework to do, I'll talk to you tomorrow
Emily Davis: See you tomorrow!
Alan leaned back and sighed, exiting out of the browser before resting back completely. He couldn't tell Casey his suspicions. Watching her in the doorway, looking more afraid than he'd ever seen her, he knew she wouldn't take the news well.
But if they wanted to catch the guy, Casey was the only way they could do it.
Derek appeared behind Casey, pushing past her with his shoulder, watching him warily and crossing his arms.
Well, no going back now.
"You started getting the calls and texts only a few days ago," Alan began, "But he's been monitoring you for longer than that."
He kept his eyes fixed on the screen, trying to figure out what to say and what to leave out, but Derek's impatience was evident, his sharp prompting keeping him from staying quiet for long.
"I said," Derek began in irritation, "how long?"
"Two years. Maybe more, I can't tell. He knows where you were last Monday, he knows where you were two days ago, and Amy wasn't an exception," murmured the blonde softly, "I don't know if he got her to meet him somewhere, or what, but he knew how to contact her."
"How?" Casey asked, walking closer to the desk, and to his side, where she saw the calendar open.
He didn't have to answer, because she figured it out, the realization written all over her face.
"It isn't your fault, Casey," he tried to say, "You didn't know, and everyone does stuff like this on their computers—"
She was ignoring him, and he stopped trying to make her feel better, glancing over at the boy who had found himself sitting on her bed, knuckles white from clenching his fists, a darkness in his eyes.
"This is all my fault," the girl found herself saying, her chest tightening, nausea rising, "It's all my fault, if I hadn't—"
Seeing that Derek was still lost in processing the information, Alan grabbed her wrist and took her to the bathroom, and held her hair as she dry-heaved.
He had never really known Casey, but she was the only person to treat him with kindness without expecting anything. It was the least he could do.
Derek followed them a moment later, watching them, no, watching him, and managed out roughly, "She okay?"
Doesn't care about her my ass, Alan thought, with a twinge of envy. "She'll be fine." Right as he said that, Casey's breakfast of oatmeal shoved its way up her throat. He turned his attention back to her and rubbed her back.
Looking grey, Casey rose to her feet and stood at the sink, rinsing her mouth out.
He heard Derek descending down the stairs.
And then she just looked at him, the bloodshot blue eyes digging into Alan's own.
She was about to say something; her mouth about to open, but the brunette had returned and interrupted them before she could get a word out.
His face was still blank, eyes still smoldering, flicking to Alan's stare, and he understood.
Derek wanted to kill him.
Casey took the can of soda he had retrieved for her and looked at his face, looking as though she was on the brink of tears and holding it in only because he wouldn't tolerate it.
She wanted to tell him she was sorry, she didn't mean to do it, to not be mad at her because he obviously was, but she dared to not say a word.
"Thanks." She mumbled softly instead, swallowing hard, shifting her gaze to the hallway and maneuvering past him.
Derek waited for her to leave and then asked, "You've got a plan?"
"I have an idea. But before we can even start on that, we've got to deal with what's going on right now. How many other computers are there here?"
Derek sighed. "Lizzie and Ed share one, it's old and clunky and they're supposed to be getting new ones for Christmas. My dad has one. Nora has a laptop, somewhere, I think."
"Ask Casey where it is. Your dad has one for work too, doesn't he?"
Derek shrugged. "He did. It got stolen a few months ago, he's been trying to get the insurance to cover it so he does most of his work at the office." After a moment passed, he continued, "Fuck, he stole it, didn't he?"
The blonde didn't respond, just repeated, "Go ask Casey to find the laptop."
In a few minutes, the three teens gathered around George's computer as Alan looked around at the files. Nothing that he could see appeared to be of any use to him, so he fished out a flash drive, and looked up at the two teens. "In advance, I'm sorry if there's anything on those computers you can't get back."
"Wait, what do you mean—" Casey began, but stopped when he plugged it in, located and ran the file he needed, and waited for it to load onto the computer.
Running the file didn't seem to do anything dramatic, which confused her, until Alan, satisfied that there was nothing on Nora's laptop he could use, repeated the motions.
"What's it doing?" Derek asked finally, thoroughly unimpressed by the display, "It looks like you didn't do it right."
The boy shot him an irritated look. "It's not going to run until they turn it on again, which, they'll have to do tonight, since both systems are shut down. When it does…"
Derek motioned with his hand for him to continue.
Alan sighed. "It's a little ridiculous on a smaller scale, it's meant for larger corporations, but essentially, it's a wipeout."
"But you can fix it, right?" Casey asked hesitantly, recalling that the laptop had been a gift.
"Sort of," he said, "I mean, that data's unrecoverable, but the computer's not a lost cause. But you can't let them get it fixed until we're done with this, you have to remember that."
"And how exactly are we supposed to prevent them from taking it in somewhere?"
He shrugged. "Improvise. Just like how you're going to get me into your father's office without him knowing."
Casey and Derek glanced at each other with twin expressions of uncertainty.
"One more computer left, then we'll talk about what we're going to do," Alan reminded them, following them upstairs.
o-o-o
The plan wasn't foolproof, they all knew that. There were plenty of things that could stop them and working around those potential barriers wasn't possible.
But they did have a plan.
Alan was going to get into George's files and see if any of his cases dealt with clients a few fries short of a happy meal.
That part was hard enough to get them to agree to, but the next portion was even more difficult.
"We're going on a date," Alan informed Casey, who choked on her ginger ale.
Derek sputtered for few moments and then said, "Absolutely not. That's stupid. Why would this creep believe you were on a date? It's practically public knowledge that you swing for the other team."
Fake date or not, the kid took the whole, no-dating-Casey thing too seriously. "Because if he saw us together, it would look suspicious, and the last thing I need is for him to think I continued helping you," he explained with a sigh, "Plus, it's more plausible that she wouldn't know, because she's not popular like you are, and…" he trailed off, sensing Casey's affront.
"And?" she asked, crossing her arms.
"Well, let me put it this way. How many times have you seen that movie where the girl dates the guy only to find out it's a wacky misunderstanding that he's gay?"
Despite his disapproval of the idea, Derek laughed, "Oh, Casey, I can totally see this happening with one of your drama geeks."
"It's our only chance," Alan pointed out, "He doesn't know you like we do, so…"
She bristled again but relented nonetheless, ignoring Derek's amused grin. "Fine. What else?"
"Holiday break is coming up."
Derek shrugged. "In like, three weeks. That's forever."
Alan had saved the worse for last, and he wasn't sure why, because there was nothing worse than being stuck at home for break when everyone else had plans. Especially when the latter included the rest of your immediate family and a spontaneous change in vacation plans—to California.
He wasn't positive how he was going to manage that, but he had a few different ideas. If worst came to worse, he'd pay for it himself, and no one needed to know, provided he could get Derek and Casey—well, mostly Derek—to agree with him.
Oddly, however, there had been no protest.
Casey just nodded thoughtfully and said, "If you're right and he does want to go after us then, I suppose it's best to give him a false lead. We kind of owe them after the computer business, too."
Derek just made him verify more than once that "the creep" couldn't catch up to them once they made the travel changes, and upon repetitive confirmation, seemed…relieved.
For once, it seemed like they were the ones a step ahead. Watching Casey begin to write down a reiteration of their plans and ideas on a notepad, Derek hoped the lucky break they were planning on worked out the way he knew she was writing it.
o-o-o
Meanwhile, Amy found herself wondering who the stranger was in front of her. She couldn't remember why she had left her house or when it had been, a few fuzzy memories of an email alluded to a decision she felt she had made a lifetime ago already.
Her arms hurt as she hung from the ceiling, no longer supported by the medical examining table she had been restrained to. She felt her bones strain with every movement as she swung to and fro, tears running down her cheeks.
Narrowly missing the hissing fire that tried to catch her skin.
It was just starting, but soon it would begin to roar.
Her skin was flushed, raw, and she tried to cough, because the smoke was just too much; but the raging pain came back and she cried as her body forced her to breathe. The stitches on her throat and collarbone popped; she felt the wound open.
She couldn't scream. She couldn't beg for him, or her, or whoever the fuck it was that was torturing her, to stop.
Her vocal cords had been removed.
It was some of his best work, he thought, personally—until she had ruined it, the stitching had been slow and perfect in placement. If she'd lived, there wouldn't have been a scar.
Why he bothered to stitch up her wounds in the first place had a few different answers. He still had some time to kill before police got wind of the kidnapping, and he wanted to feel a bit of a thrill, see the frantic cars and newscasters telling the same story eight different ways, just because.
He wanted Venturi to catch some heat, though he was sad he couldn't witness it firsthand.
The final answer was: hope.
He wanted to give the girl hope. As he loosened her binds slightly and stitched her up, put on her jacket, like she was a doll. As he washed his instruments and put things away, as though he was nearing the end of the work day. She watched, her fast, scared breaths slowed, and then the moment that flicker of hope appeared in her eyes.
The rush he felt when he could so easily destroy it by pulling her into a different room had been worth the wordless coaxing. He tied her up from her wrists, and as she began to cry again, struck a match.
Cut to now.
His lips curled into a smirk as the light from her eyes extinguished; the camera was on a tripod, catching it all. He was simply watching, because he could.
In the background were snippets of things he was sure would throw the police off their trail entirely. A few posters of metal bands. Half of a fake Battle of the Bands event poster from an obscure and nonexistent high school, generically named to prolong the investigation. In the video, he included a long shot of a shelf with books on serial killers and 'how-to' volumes on hunting.
If anything got the police up and running, it was clichés.
He had briefly considered changing his plan and letting Venturi take the fall for Amy's death, but decided against it. Derek Venturi was his, and so was everyone else he kept huddled close.
He didn't need the police fucking that up.
So he prepared the video, some fake metadata in order to allude to a potential author, and all the necessary security measures.
Then he pressed send, and leaned back with a smile.