Page 23 of The Fix

Cami stared at the phone and, true to the caller’s word, thirty seconds later a text came through from a different unknown number with a photo attached.

Cami clicked on the photo, and her blood ran cold.

It was a young boy, sitting on a bed in a room with bars on the window.

There was no other furniture present, only a bedpan and a bottle of water.

What the hell is this? She blinked, her eyes moving back to the child, sitting with his knees drawn up the same way she had been just minutes before.

He looked terrified. With suddenly shaking hands, Cami used her fingers to zoom in on the boy’s face. And she nearly fell over.

He looked just like her.

My eyes. My nose. Even his ears were the same. And she saw Hollis in his expression, but he overwhelmingly looked like her.

With a tortured gasp, Cami reached for the wall, leaning on it as her legs turned to jelly.

Was it . . . but how . . .

The boy looked to be the same age her son would be.

She shook her head. But no, this wasn’t possible.

Her boy was somewhere in San Diego, California, living with a beautiful young couple who had a white poodle and a lovely home with a pool.

He worked in tech, and she had planned to be a stay-at-home mom when the woman from the adoption agency had placed the baby in her arms.

The baby Cami had wailed silently for as she pictured the couple counting her son’s toes and running a finger over his tiny nose.

No no no no. What is this? Was it some kind of sick joke?

She pushed herself off the wall, anger racing through her. Who would do something so demented? So cold? Who would torment her like this just to be cruel?

But if it’s a cruel prank, who is this child? And why does he look like me?

She massaged her temple. Nothing made sense.

“Oh my God.” Cami set the phone down and then stepped away. She had to call the police. They’d trace this call and find out who the sicko was who’d either sent her a fake photo, or who’d kidnapped a child who looked like her son might look right now.

Or, who’d kidnapped her actual son.

Do not call the police or you’ll regret it. And others will too. Innocents.

Innocents? Like the child sitting alone in a barred room with nothing but water and a bedpan? Another shiver made her draw up her shoulders.

If a child had been kidnapped, it would be all over the news.

He was a beautiful young boy with parents who, if not as affluent as her family had once been, were well-to-do.

Cami ran to her room and grabbed her laptop and then sat down on the couch, placed it on the coffee table, and entered her passcode.

She did a Google search for local San Diego news stations and then quickly scrolled through that day’s headlines.

Nothing about an abducted child. She used the search bar to look up any stories that might have the words kidnapped or abducted in the headlines.

There were a few, but nothing recent. Cami clicked on a story from a couple of months before, but when she skimmed the article, she saw that the little girl who’d gone missing from her yard had been found later that day.

Something about a parental rights dispute.

Just in case her son’s adoptive family had moved, she did a more general Google search, looking for missing boys who’d been taken recently and fit her son’s description. But after scrolling through a few that looked like possibilities, she found nothing.

Her heart rate slowed, and she blew out a long breath as she sat back.

She felt mildly better and more assured that this was a sick prank for reasons she couldn’t begin to understand, but the worry didn’t evaporate completely.

What if her son had been taken very recently—like within the last hour—and he hadn’t even been reported missing yet?

Was it possible that some kidnapper somewhere knew she was his mother and thought they still had the money they’d once had?

Would a ransom be forthcoming? Her dad was retired now, yet still well off, but Cami herself had very little in the bank.

But how would someone know she was related to this child, if in fact she was?

It’d been a completely closed adoption. Even she wasn’t supposed to know where her son’s adoptive parents lived, but she’d accidentally seen the location in the family’s file when she was being shown photos.

That information was another reason she’d chosen them—it would save her from the pain of wondering if she’d run into her son someday.

It was easier for her to know he was well loved and cared for, but far enough away that she wouldn’t have to wonder if every little boy she saw with Hollis’s smile or her hair color was the baby she’d given away.

She picked up her phone and looked at the text log, noting that twenty-eight minutes had passed since the photo had come through. She sat there, her nerves firing up again as she waited. Her knee bounced, and she chewed at her thumbnail. Two minutes passed, and her phone didn’t ring.

A prank. It was just a prank. She had questions, and she’d definitely call the authorities, but—

Her phone screen lit up with a call. “Shit,” she said under her breath. Yet another unknown number. She picked her phone up and swiped the screen. “H-hello?”

“Are you ready to agree to a do-over?”

“I don’t understand what that means. I don’t understand what this is.

” What was she agreeing to? What kind of do-over?

What had she done once that she was being given the opportunity to do again?

This was whacked. She heard the sound of something in the background that sounded like soft, wheezy breathing as though the caller were related to Darth Vader.

And maybe the pure ridiculousness of that visual was the thing that caused her to say, “Sure, I agree. I’d like a do-over. What am I doing over?”

“You will receive a link to a video and, using that footage, you are invited to locate the child. If you fail to find him in four days, he will be given to other interested parties who, shall we say, do not have his best interests at heart. Again, do not call the police. If you do, the video will be removed, and you will not hear from me again. If you log in on more than one device, the video will be removed.”

Cami’s head buzzed and her thoughts were disjointed as she tried to make sense of what was nonsensical.

And even despite her confusion, dread continued to descend.

“I ... yes, I’ll be sent a video ...

to use to find a child in ... four days?

He’s at risk. Only log in on one device, and no police. ”

The caller let out a slow exhale that again sounded tinny and overly breathy in some strange way. “The video is being shared via SecureDrop. You will need to download a browser called Tore to access it. Repeat that, please.”

Cami ran to the kitchen and fumbled around in her junk drawer for a pen and pad, writing down the sites as she said them. “SecureDrop. Tore.” She’d vaguely heard of SecureDrop, but what the hell was Tore?

“Good luck.” And with that, the call went dead.

Cami’s head continued to buzz, and her face felt hot. She didn’t comprehend what was happening, but she knew it was something terrible.

A few seconds later, another text came in, and when she opened it, she saw that it contained a number of letters and symbols that was not clickable.

Cami returned to her laptop and did a search on Tore , which actually ended up being Tor , and was, she discovered, the browser necessary to access the dark web.

Her stomach tightened, and she swallowed.

She’d heard of the dark web in passing, but she hadn’t realized it was a real thing.

Was it even legal to enter sites there? She didn’t know, but if the FBI showed up on her doorstep, she’d have a pretty decent reason—she hoped—for explaining why she’d been there.

She downloaded Tor and then launched it and copy and pasted the address she’d been texted.

A video showed up on her screen. It was the same room that had been in the still photograph, only now, it was in video format, and the child was lying on the bed, back to the camera. It appeared he was sleeping.

She blinked, her hands clammy as her heart sped faster. What was she supposed to do with this? It was just a video of a room. She was meant to locate this child somehow? It was an impossible ask. Or offer. Or whatever.

If you fail to find him in four days, he will be given to other interested parties who, shall we say, do not have his best interests at heart.

With a shaky exhale, she made the video larger and squinted as she looked around the dim room.

Was there something on the walls that would indicate where this was?

A cross-stitch that read, We love our home at 1234 Maple Lane, San Diego, California.

She swallowed back the high-pitched, panicked chuckle that threatened to burst from her mouth. It was fueled by fear.

What do I do?

She really had no choice but to notify the police.

She’d been sent a video wherein a child was threatened, and—even if that wasn’t true—he was alone in a room with bars on the window and needed rescuing from that predicament alone.

She’d been “invited” to find him, but there was no conceivable way to do that.

He might be anywhere on planet Earth, and all she had to go on was a video of a small, mostly empty room.

And who was to say that the video was even recent?

It might have been shot ten years ago. There was nothing to indicate place, but also nothing to tell her the date or decade.

Maybe there’s a way to trace these calls. But how, without the police?

I could call Dad. Maybe he still has some work contacts who could help.

She shook her head. No. He’d been retired now for eleven years.

He’d moved to a new neighborhood and remarried two years before, to a nice woman named Gigi who was thoughtful and good to her dad.

She’d gone to the wedding and wished him and her new stepmother well, then returned home and cried.

She didn’t fault him for wanting another shake at happiness, though. He deserved to find love again.

But her dad would insist on calling the police. Which might be best ... but not the thing she was willing to do first.

Forget the why or how, she told herself. Did she believe this was legitimate? In any way?

She didn’t know. But a child was involved, and she would not make the wrong decision without thinking this through.

It probably was far more than it seemed, and she needed to get her thoughts in order and come up with a plan before making any move at all.

She needed to understand the potential technological weaknesses behind whatever this was.

She sat there, her heart pounding and her brain doing somersaults as she filtered through all her contacts and friends, anyone and everyone she knew. Most of the people she was close to worked with butterflies , for the love of God.

She could only think of one person who might have the information she needed— but that person told me bluntly that he wanted nothing to do with me . Contacting him at all was a risk she wasn’t sure she should be willing to take.

But what if the child on the screen was in true danger?