Cassandra had discarded the two previous notes she had received while working at the WomenHeart charity shop as some silly prank. Because of that she had never mentioned anything to her husband, but this time, whatever this was, it had gone too far. She had already made up her mind that she would show Mr. J the note that was left on her car. That’s why she had kept it in her handbag, so she wouldn’t forget it.
Cassandra reached for the Japanese restaurant to-go menu and was about to dial its number when her doorbell rang. She paused and frowned at the door. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
Ding-ding.
‘Are you kidding me?’ she said, putting down the menu and consulting her timepiece — 7:36 p.m.
Ding-ding.
Holding on to her phone, she approached the door and peeked through the peephole. Standing outside, staring straight at the door as if he could see through it, was a uniformed, LAPD officer.
Cassandra’s frown intensified three-fold. ‘Who is it?’ she called, without unlocking the door.
‘Ms. Jenkinson?’ the officer asked. His voice was calm but firm.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Officer Douglas with the LAPD Valley Bureau. I was wondering if I could have a word with you, ma’am.’
A couple of confused silent seconds went by.
‘A word with me about what?’
The officer took a second, as if he needed it to steady himself.
‘It’s about your husband, ma’am. John Jenkinson.’
Something in the officer’s tone of voice made Cassandra’s heart skip a beat.
‘What? What about John? Is everything OK?’
A new, quick, silent moment.
‘If possible, ma’am, I think it would be better if we talked inside.’
Cassandra felt as if the room was closing in on her.
‘Oh, my God!’ she whispered as she quickly unlocked the door and pulled it open. ‘What happened? Is John OK? Where is he?’
Cassandra couldn’t see the officer’s eyes, as they were hidden behind mirrored shades, but his facial expression was dark, solemn.
‘It would be better if we could sit down, Ms. Jenkinson.’
She searched his face again, but again, all she found was a dark wall.
‘Why? What happened?’
‘Please, let’s have a seat.’
‘Yes, OK, come in,’ she finally said, fully opening the door and indicating the dark-gray sofa in her living room. ‘Please tell me, what’s going on? Where’s John? Is he OK? Is everything OK?’
The officer stepped into the house.
As Cassandra closed the door behind them, the officer turned to face her.
‘Can I ask you something, Ms. Jenkinson?’
‘Yes, of course.’
The officer took off his dark glasses.
‘Have you ever felt like you’re being watched?’
Twenty-Eight
Hunter got to his feet and moved around to Garcia’s desk.
‘What have you got?’ he asked.
The expression on Garcia’s face was still half confused, half surprised. He clearly wasn’t expecting to find whatever it was that he had found. He extended his index finger and once again indicated his computer monitor.
‘Have a look.’
Displaying on Garcia’s screen was a social media network page. Hunter looked at it blank-faced.
‘So what exactly am I looking at here?’ he asked.
‘This post right here.’ Garcia pointed to it.
Hunter read the entry, paused, read it again then looked back at his partner. ‘Whose page is this?’
‘Pete Harris’s,’ Garcia replied.
Hunter took a second. ‘Is that the friend Tanya mentioned? The makeup artist who’s supposed to be in Europe somewhere?’
Garcia confirmed. ‘That’s him. And by the looks of it, he really is in Europe. He posted something this morning.’ He scrolled all the way up to the top of the page to show Hunter. ‘He’s on set in Berlin. Been there for nearly a month now.’
Hunter acknowledged it and Garcia scrolled back down to where they originally were.
‘Now,’ Garcia said, ‘have you noticed the first comment?’
Hunter had. It had come from Tanya Kaitlin, with replies from Karen Ward and Pete Harris. His gaze searched for the date at the top of the post.
‘This was posted over six months ago,’ he said in a quiet, pensive tone.
‘That’s right,’ Garcia agreed. ‘So even if Tanya wasn’t going through this post-traumatic amnesia stuff you mentioned, I’m not sure she would’ve remembered this.’
Hunter’s attention returned to Garcia’s screen. Pete Harris had uploaded an image he had probably plucked from the Internet. It showed two women standing side by side. The one on the left looked to be in her early twenties, the one on the right in her mid-fifties. The younger of the two was smiling at her cellphone, while the other one was holding the receiver of an old-fashioned, disc-dial phone to her ear. Across the face of the image, in black letters, a challenge was followed by a grading scale:
You vs. your parents’ generation. The phone number challenge. Is technology making you brainlazy?
How many phone numbers can you remember without having to look at your contacts?
0 = 100 % brainlazy. You’re a slave to your phone. Can you still remember your own name?
1 to 3 = Believe it or not, you’re already better than 85 % of people out there, but don’t kid yourself, you’re still brainlazy and far from what your parents’ generation could do.
4 to 6 = Now you’re getting close, and you deserve a pat on the back. You made it to the top 3 % of your generation. Yeah, seriously.
7 to 10 = Congratulations, you just equaled the average person in your parents’ generation, and you’re now in the elite 1 % of yours.
More than 10 = What, really? Impressive. Your memory banks are hyperactive and brainlaziness has missed you completely. Your parents’ generation has nothing on you when it comes to remembering phone numbers, and in this day and age, you could possibly be THE ONLY ONE OF YOUR KIND.
Pete had introduced the post with the following words: ‘Be honest, people.’
The first comment had come from Tanya Kaitlin: Lol, not a single one for me. Shameful, I know. I’ve become completely brainlazy 
. And I admit, I am a slave to my phone.
Karen had added a reply to Tanya’s comment: Really? Not even mine? What a great best friend you are lol.
Or mine? Pete had added his reply directly underneath Karen’s.
Tanya had come back with: Sorry, guys, my memory is shit when it comes to memorizing stuff. You know that. But how about you two? You’re also my best friends. Do any of you know my phone number by heart? Don’t cheat.
To that, Karen had added one last reply: Point taken, Tanya, lol.
And Pete: Yup, subject closed. Thank god for the wonders of technology lol 
.
‘How many people commented on this post?’ Hunter asked.
‘There are fifty-two comments from forty-six different people,’ Garcia replied. ‘But the post was “liked” by ninety-one.’ He indicated on the screen.
‘Can I?’ Hunter asked, nodding at Garcia’s mouse.
‘Sure.’ Garcia rolled his chair a little to the left.
Hunter bent forward a little, used the mouse to completely expand the ‘comment’ section, and slowly read through all forty-six of them. Most of them were very similar to Tanya’s first reply, stating that they couldn’t really remember a single number by heart. None of them stood out.