When the offer came toward the end of her internship for WKPZ, Claire willingly followed her path to Atlanta. She figured the Vandersols needed some time alone, the weather was better in Atlanta, and the job was everything she prayed for. As the years continued, she learned more and more about the business, earned respect, notoriety, and a growing income. The station manager told her more than once that her willingness to learn and work made her a rising star.
The path hit a roadblock in April of 2009 when WKPZ was purchased by a large corporate network. Claire wasn’t the only person to lose her job. Actually, over half of the veterans and most of the interns and assistants were let go. By then, she had student loans, an apartment, car and credit card debt. Honestly, that credit card and bartending kept food on the table while she looked for new employment. She considered leaving Atlanta. But she liked the city, the climate, and the people.
In Atlanta, she could depend on indigo blue skies and rusted red dirt. The vision out her window was black and white, like an old photograph. The ground, trees, and grass were colorless. The cloud-covered sky hung low and endless. The word that came to mind was “cold.” She could be in Indiana, Michigan, or anywhere in the Midwest. They all looked alike. She hated the winter, the darkness, and the lack of color. Now she was staring at it through the windows of her prison.
Claire wondered if she should have opened the drapes. Her discovery made her situation direr. If she wasn’t in Atlanta, where was she? And how did she get here? She looked at the stupid switch and considered shutting away the bleak outside world. It wasn’t helping her attitude. Claire decided the switch didn’t help her attitude or the non-English speaking servant, the expensive clothes, or the lavish surroundings. She was being held prisoner by a crazy man who somehow believed that he now owned her. Her location, luxurious surroundings, fancy clothes—none of it mattered. She could have been in a cinder block cell. She was still a prisoner, and the stupid stuff wouldn’t help that.
As hours and days passed, Claire had nothing to do but think. She mostly thought about escaping, fantasizing about running through the massive wooded scene outside her window. In her fantasy, salvation was through the trees. But she couldn’t get outside the room, much less to the trees. After a few days, in a moment of heated desperation, Claire took one of the chairs from the table and tried to break the panes of glass on the French doors. The damn chair bounced off the glass. She searched the suite for anything heavy. The closest thing was a thick book. Even with repeated strikes, it had no effect on the windows.
The hours and days spent alone made her yearn for the hustle and bustle of the Red Wing. She wondered about the regulars and her coworkers. Had anyone reported her missing? These thoughts usually resulted in tears and a headache. In an attempt at self-preservation and sanity, she began to think about the past. Was there something in the past that led to this?
Liking Earth science and weather, meteorology seemed a natural choice. She loved the unknown. As a teenager, she experienced her first tornado. The power and unpredictability of the storm fascinated her. It exhilarated her to watch warm and cold fronts collide. She loved to learn more about it and the whys. The computers could help you predict the weather. But it is such a small part. Why do some fronts stall and create floods when days before the models predicted only an inch of rain? How can a warm sunny day suddenly turn stormy? She wanted to understand it better, to control the outcomes in some way, perhaps minimize its destructive forces. But now a degree in meteorology was useless.
Near the end of March . . .
He’d been in the apartment on multiple occasions. Thankfully, this would be his last visit. Looking at his TAG Heuer watch, he knew the movers should be there in thirty minutes. He slowly walked around the small rooms. Starting in her bedroom, he surveyed what remained of her belongings. Everything else, the clothes and household items, had been placed in boxes labeled for donation. The full-sized bed was stripped. Only the mattress, boxed springs, and frame remained.
On top of the dresser were the items Anthony pondered. There were pictures in frames, indicating some sentimental attachment. He knew most of the faces. Some he’d seen in person. Others he learned about through whatever means necessary. There was a picture of her grandparents in one of those cheap frames labeled “Grandparents.” Then there was an old picture of Claire with her sister Emily and their parents taken in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. If he had to guess, Claire was about twelve or thirteen. There was a close-up of Claire and Emily at Emily’s wedding. He would have known the location even without the evidence of Emily’s veil. He remembered the day. It was hot and humid, even for Indiana. The last was a more recent photo of Emily and John sitting on a sofa.
Also laid out on the dresser were a few pieces of jewelry. The inexpensive things had been included in the donation boxes. These pieces, however, were of finer quality. The pearl necklace on a white gold chain was the same one she wore in the wedding picture with Emily. There was also a pair of diamond earrings. As Anthony fingered the diamond studs with his gloved hands, he decided to put them into the donation box. The damn things couldn’t be half of a carat total weight. He grinned. If he wanted Claire to have diamond earrings, they sure as hell would be bigger than that.
Walking toward the living room, he glanced into the bathroom, completely empty with most of its contents thrown away. No one wants a used shower curtain. The living room was amazingly sterile, contrasting the way he found it. Months ago, when he first entered the apartment to place the surveillance cameras, the small living room surprised him. He had closets bigger than this, yet it was homey, if that was possible. It may have been the pictures, plants, or eclectic furnishings—he really didn’t know. It felt like her.
Now the room was down to the bare essentials. He looked at his watch: seventeen more minutes. He picked up the laptop and placed it in the case. Going back to the bedroom, he decided to keep all the framed pictures and the pearl necklace. He put them in the case with the laptop.
Reminiscing, the computer had been invaluable. With it, he’d been able to access her calendar, e-mail, and various accounts. He found all scheduled commitments and via e-mail regretfully canceled. He also e-mailed her employer, Facebook friends, and sister. They all received a similar message describing an amazing opportunity she received, how she’d be unreachable for a while, but would get back to them as soon as her decision regarding her future was made. Through the laptop, her bank accounts, credit cards, auto loan, utility bills, cellular phone—everything—was assessed. The balances now all read zero. After paying each final statement in full, the accounts were closed. The monies that went into her bank accounts were difficult to trace, but if someone took the time to do it, they would learn it was a settlement from WKPZ. Anthony hoped no one would investigate that thoroughly, but if they did, that discovery should pacify them. Of course, WKPZ had no record of such a transaction, but the probability of anyone investigating that thoroughly was low. The fact the monies had been deposited into her various savings and checking accounts four days before her disappearance led to the allusion. Smiling, he recalled sitting with her at the Red Wing, knowing she had an extra $200,000 plus in her accounts and was clueless. Anthony knew from his surveillance that she only checked her accounts on the weekend. At that time, she would sit down and attempt to make ends meet. The day after she did her little balancing act, the monies electronically appeared.