Page 67 of On Your Life

“This video was on Conner’s laptop. Along with a shit ton of other evidence. Now look at this.” I pull out the Polaroid and hold it beside the frozen image. “Do these men look the same?”

The gear, the masks, the guns—they all look identical. She leans forward, studying the two images.

“Yeah they do.” Her eyes flick between the Polaroid and the screen. “I don’t know how they would even be related though. Who’s in the video? Where is she now?” she asks.

There’s no turning back now.

“This is Conner’s mom.” Her face falls. “She’s obviously fine now because she’s living the dream in his old house.” I let out a humorless laugh. “She’s been addicted to drugs for years. He has saved her from more overdoses than I can count and now she’s completely sober and the picture-perfect, grieving mother. None of it makes sense.”

She stares at the Polaroid for a long time, her gaze caught on the victim's face.

“I wonder if she’s okay,” she whispers.

“I don’t know.” I take the picture back. “So why are you snooping on the warden’s computer? Have you found anything in his office that makes you think he’s involved in this?”

She lets out a deep sigh before answering.

“No. I just wanted to be sure,” she says, her fingers twisting in her lap. “I was trying to think of who I’d tell and he’s the only person above the captain. If he’s comfortable bringing that stuff here, wouldn’t the warden know?”

The warden is never here. But at this point, I don’t think any idea is too far-fetched. I lean over her and grab the mouse, closing out of the window that has a photo of me before my life went to absolute shit.

Every folder on the screen appears to be labeled something work related but I click through them anyways. Payroll, lunch menus, safety checks—no damning evidence that I can see.

The last icon is the prison-issued email. We all have one that no one checks.

36,452 Unread Messages

“This is going to take all night,” I sigh. I don’t have that kind of time.

“Try searching,” she says. She points to the search bar at the top of the screen.

“Searching what?” I ask.

I type in random words—picture, women, kidnapping—but none of them yield results. I’m about to give up when something cold crawls down my spine. I know what to search.

R-E-A-P-E-R

Five emails populate on the screen and I freeze. The most recent was sent about a week ago.

To: Sawtooth Penitentiary Warden

From: Unknown

Subject: Procurement

Warden,

I hope this message finds you well. The Auction is planned for next month. Do you have any available dates?

>REPLY

From: Sawtooth Penitentiary Warden

To: Unknown

Subject: Re: Procurement

Next week is fine. Tell your reapers to be more discreet this time.