Finding Forever (50 page)

“Dear Brookie,” began the handwritten letter Brooklyn found propped on her pillow when she returned home from L.A. “Went to bed early. Can't wait to hear all about your big night in the morning. Kisses, Mom.”

Brooklyn kicked off her heels, her sore feet throbbing in their fashion freedom. She wiggled out of the dress and hung it in her closet, then put on her sweats and a T-shirt. After pulling her hair back into a tight ponytail, she sunk into the desk chair and began the process of turning all the information she had gathered about Taylor's disappearance into something she could actually publish.

She now had two anonymous sources, Beckett and Evan, telling her that Taylor had been taken against her will and she also had evidence, including video surveillance footage, suggesting virtually for certain that Taylor was taken to the Kensington Solutions property in Thermal, California. But even so, she had neither undeniable proof (the IV bag stamped “Kensington” didn't definitely place her there) nor an on-the-record source. In other words, she had a lot of dots but no official, irrefutable lines connecting any of them.

The consequences of getting her story wrong were greater than professional embarrassment. She knew that to wrongly publish a story alleging that a non-profit and its founder had essentially kidnapped a celebrity would almost certainly get her sued for libel. It could, in fact, ruin her journalism career while it was just getting started. One way to get undeniable confirmation would be with firsthand observation. But it was already past nine o'clock at night; she wasn't about to drive out to the California desert and knock on the gates of a remote
compound asking for Taylor. But she could learn more by staying home and using her laptop.

She began by searching for media stories including the names Peter Kensington and Oliver Franks, and she read everything that came up about Kensington Solutions. Two hours later, Brooklyn had amassed a compelling, if also chilling portrait of a shady organization and leader that were entirely consistent with what her sources had told her. But they were dots—still unconnected.

In the Central California State University investigative journalism online training course Brooklyn had taken the previous spring, she learned that the risk of losing a defamation or libel lawsuit was significantly lower if a journalist ran a story with an on-the-record source who they believed in good faith had been telling the truth. Beckett, for whatever reason, had completely gone off the grid, and had seemed so fearful she doubted he would go on the record anyway. That left two of her sources—Simone and Evan—with whom she could make one last effort at convincing.

                      
Simone! Haven't heard back from you. Lets chat asap. U free?

And while Evan never replied to any previous calls or texts, and he was probably too spooked to engage on something as insecure as a phone, his cell was worth a shot.

                      
Great meeting today. I have an urgent question. Tell me more about Coachella Vista? And there's more . . . Plz call me.

Bed sheets. Two of them twisted ropelike and knotted together. At the end dangled a loop just big enough to tie around one's neck.

Taylor held the tangle of sheets in a bunch close to her body as she tiptoed toward her room door. She pushed the door open slowly and peered into the hallway, checking the gum that still held in the latch.

With no guard in sight, Taylor darted for the sliding doors that opened to the front courtyard. Outside there was no moon. No shadows cast beside the cactus that dotted the grounds. No coyotes howling, no German shepherds barking.

Taylor wheezed as she sprinted full-speed across the lawn. The dash in the dark seemed farther than it actually was. And it felt like a run for her life.

When she reached the stone wall, she unfurled the bed sheets. Taylor gazed at the foot-high black iron spikes that rimmed the fence top like saber-rattling soldiers. The wall seemed much higher than it had during the day. Impossibly higher.

Taylor looked back at the clinic building. No sight of a guard. While Peter's Casa Bell sat calmly in the distance, Taylor's heart beat so hard her throat pulsed with fear—and hope.

With a heave skyward, Taylor launched the thin linen rope, aiming the loop so it could lasso around a single spike. But the loop didn't catch. Instead it fell limply onto the dirt. She immediately picked it up, tossing it skyward again. This time, it secured itself around the spike. She tugged hard, anchoring it.

Taylor then sucked in a long breath, grabbed hold of the jerry-rigged rope and with all the strength she could muster,
simultaneously jumped and pulled her body up. Her feet dangled as she shimmied up the rope inch by inch, grunt by grunt.