Page 3 of Unbound

Prologue

Not Lindsey

Three Months Ago

Ithink I’ve been staring at my computer too long. Because it almost looks like the date on the screen is...

I lean forward, squinting at the low-quality image of a twenty-six-year-old newspaper article, trying to discern the numbers. I want to believe the second place on the day is a six, but after searching for months without finding anything useful, it’s hard to believe what I think I’m seeing. Especially since I haven’t come across a single relevant breadcrumb to follow in my hunt for the truth.

Leaning back, I dig the heels of both hands into my eyes, trying to rub away the bleariness and exhaustion that are likely making me see shit that isn’t there.

I don’t know what time it is or how long I’ve been sitting here, hunched over a keyboard in my darkened office, legs twisted like a pretzel, fingers covered in Hot Cheeto dust… Searching. Sifting through an unending abyss, looking for anything that might be useful. Anything that might get me the answers I need.

With a deep breath, I force myself up from the chair that’s making my tailbone ache, groaning a little at the tension and stiffness in my legs as I stretch both arms over my head.

I probably need to eat something. Take a quick shower. Come back to my task with a full belly and fresh eyes. I’ll see the five that’s really there, and then I can move on.

I’ve made the mistake of getting excited a few times already, and every single one of them turned out to be nothing. I’m not sure I can handle the let down again.

Dragging myself into the kitchen of my townhome, I dig through the fridge and cabinets, looking for something easy to stuff into my face. Everything’s pretty bare, but I manage to scrounge up a container of lemon yogurt, half a pack of graham crackers, and three mini cheese wheels. After peeling off the protective wax, I shove an entire hunk of Monterey jack into my mouth, chewing through it as I fish the least worn pair of leggings from my laundry hamper and a wrinkled T-shirt from the basket of clean clothes stacked on my dresser.

With my fresh T-shirt, semi-clean leggings, and collection of foodstuffs balanced in my arms, I come to a stop a few feet from the bathroom door. Have I taken this too far? Become too obsessed with discovering the truth?

I look around my messy bedroom as I cram half a foursquare of graham cracker into my mouth.

Nah. I’m probably fine.

Continuing on, I carry my armload into the bathroom, dropping everything to the counter of the double sink vanity before peeling off my clothes and depositing them in the corner. I’ve got a second cheese wheel in my mouth as I step under the shower spray, scrubbing down my body and hair before taking just a few extra seconds to soak up the warmth of the water, letting it loosen the tight muscles of my shoulders and neck.

I probably need to take a break. Put a heating pad on my problem spots, and give my eyeballs and brain a little bit of time to relax. I don’t necessarily want to, but I also don’t want to end up with another tension migraine. That would put me out of commission for at least two days, and that’s two days I could be using constructively.

Or destructively, depending on how you look at things.

Because while I haven’t technically found anything, the lack of information is telling in itself. There’s no reason I shouldn’t have easily come across plenty of documentation that would fill in the blanks for me. It makes me think someone has worked very hard to make sure I can’t find what I’m searching for.

Does that make me a conspiracy theorist? Maybe. But I don’t have a giant felt board covered in string and Post-its yet, so again, I’m probably fine.

Once I finish up in the shower, I pull on my questionable outfit, and take what’s left of my yogurt back to the spare bedroom serving as the hub for my amateur sleuthing. I’ve pretty much decided I need to take a couple hours off, but not until I confirm my eyes were playing tricks on me earlier. I won’t be able to rest until I do.

Plopping down into my seat, I tuck one knee close to my chest, planting my foot against the flattened cushion I added to keep my butt from falling asleep. As I lean forward, I shove a bite of yogurt into my mouth, scanning what’s in front of me for the second time.

“Huh.” That is the date I’m looking for, but not at all the person I expected to be connected with it. Either I have part of my information wrong, or there is more to this than I thought.

I’m willing to bet both things are true.

I’ve already chased more dead-end leads than I can count in the past eighteen months. I’m probably about to add another one to the tally, but there’s a little tickle in my gut trying to convince me I’ve finally found something.

That the needle I was searching for was just in the wrong haystack.

I toss my empty yogurt container in the general direction of the trashcan, eyes glued to the screen as my fingers hit the keyboard. Never in a million years did I imagine I’d spend my early thirties becoming a self-taught hacker, but here we fucking are.

Digging into dirt everyone tried to bury.

I’m a few hours into this new quest—all plans for rest and relaxation forgotten—when I finally find a photo. The woman in the image is beautiful. She’s got sandy blonde hair a few shades darker than mine, pretty blue eyes, and a huge smile. The little boy standing next to her is just as adorable. His hair is an almost identical shade as hers—as are his eyes—and a scattering of freckles dot his nose. The similarities are too strong for him to be anyone but her son, and that sends me down yet another rabbit hole.

But this rabbit hole isn’t nearly as deep.

In under thirty minutes, I’ve found out who the little boy is, the name of the business he owns, where he lives, and have a recent photo.