Her screen lit up with a text: How are you holding up?
Bruce. Her limbs melted into the couch with relief. Okay. What’s happening?
Can’t say. Talk tomorrow?
Cassidy gazed at the ceiling for a moment before replying. Will I be able to get out of here tomorrow?
I hope so. Hang in there.
Promise me you’ll be safe.
Always
She scrolled through her messages to make sure she hadn’t missed one from Quinn, then clicked through to National Geographic where she selected a travel documentary about Italy. Sometime later she woke in darkness, with her laptop screen dark and the refrigerator rattling.
Wiping the dried drool from her cheek, she rose and climbed into the bed, but the scratchy sheets grated on her skin and the room felt stuffy. She was used to sleeping with windows open and real air filling her lungs. She tossed and turned—a struggle that would have felt almost comforting in its predictability. What did the next day have in store for her? More waiting inside these walls, most likely. At 4:13 a.m. she gave up, sliding on her glasses to check her phone. No news from Bruce, and nothing from Quinn. Had they released him yet? If they had, did he sneak off to see his novia?
She rose and made herself a cup of instant coffee, then sipped it standing at the kitchen counter, scrolling through emails on her laptop. One from Rodney caught her attention, and she clicked it open to read the list of nonprofit organizations supported by her father as well as any business connections to Seattle. She typed a quick thank you reply then moved to the couch. Her frazzled mind grabbed hold of this new project like a lifeline, quickly shutting out everything else.
The list held eighteen names. Some she recognized, like the Special Olympics and Boise State, her dad’s alma matter, but others drew blanks. She opened her web browser and began the hunt, cross-referencing from the list. Her father had supported several private charities: one that helped support education in Sierra Leone, another that built schools in rural Baja California, another called DoSomething.org which helps teens connect with causes that they believe in.
He also gave generously to the Boys and Girls Clubs of America, a surprise because to her memory, she and Quinn had never set foot in a Boys and Girls Club. Her father was a mountain lover and gave generously to the National Geographic Exploration Fund, and an environmental charity called The Mountain Institute, and he had also started his own charity, Frigus Futures, which funded climate research.
But so far, none matched the list of current events in Seattle for August 21st. She continued, losing herself in the sea of information from each of the websites, recognizing it for the indulgence it was. By 6:15 she had three remaining and promised herself a second cup of coffee once her scavenger hunt was complete.
However, the moment the next page in her search opened, she forgot all about it.
Twenty-Two
Cassidy stared at the match between the list of events on August 21st and the name on her screen: The Faith Ellison Foundation.
Her heart pumped faster the further she scanned the website. Faith Ellison was the daughter of Tony Ellison, a well-known entertainer from her dad’s era. Tony Ellison had started the foundation after Faith died from a drug overdose.
But he hadn’t started the foundation alone. As she scrolled the list of contributors, her father’s name was side by side with Tony’s. And Preston Ford’s.
How were these three men connected? Friends? Business partners? And what was the Faith Ellison Foundation’s mission?
Cassidy returned to the home page, digesting each paragraph slowly, her mind trying to process it. She followed links to the other pages, reading until her eyes felt like dried grapes. Sitting back, she reviewed what she’d learned. The Faith Ellison Foundation supported teen substance abuse recovery research, founded a recovery program called RISE that also offered free medical services and counseling, which they hosted at their intake centers.
A detail buzzed at the back of her brain. She searched the Web for Faith Ellison and Seattle then clicked open the story from the Seattle Times. The night of August 21st was a gala to raise funds for a new intake center.
An uneasy, slippery sensation wove through her insides. She typed “Faith Ellison” and “intake center” into the search bar.
She opened the map option. There were eighteen, in four different cities: Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle.
Fingers shaking, she dialed Quinn’s number, not caring that it was only seven o’clock. He didn’t answer. Frustrated, she hung up before leaving a message and texted him instead.
Call me. It’s about Dad.
Then she called Bruce, who answered on the third ring.
“Mornin’, sunshine,” he said, sounding tired. As if to punctuate her suspicions, he hissed a loud yawn.
She opened her mouth but her turbulent thoughts wouldn’t form into words.
“Hello?” he asked when she didn’t answer.
Cassidy stood from the couch and hugged herself with her free arm. “I found something weird.”
“Hang on,” he said, and she heard the phone muffled against him, then footsteps. “There. Now I can hear you better. I’m in the hall.”
“Are you downtown?” she asked, squinting through the blinds at the bright sunshine making mirrors of the neighboring glass buildings.
“Yes.” He finished another noisy yawn.
“Wait, have you been up all night?”
“Yeah, we’re just about done.”
She plopped onto the chair. “Did something good happen?”
“Yep,” he said, a note of triumph in his voice.
“Well, are you going to tell me about it?” she half-cried, squeezing her middle to make it stop.
Bruce sighed. “As soon as I can, I will. It’s not over.”
Cassidy groaned in agony. “Where’s Quinn? I can’t reach him.”
“He’s still being held for bail, as far as I know.”
Cassidy slumped against the edge of the couch. “He had to spend the night?”
“It was for the best.”
“Please get him out of there,” she begged as the thought of Quinn sleeping on a
