We are very worried about Vanessa and hope you will consider featuring her on your podcast. Maybe someone out there knows something.
Thank you,
Carla Garcia
I reread the email, and a feeling I’ve come to recognize builds inside me: this is a case worth exploring. I quickly respond, asking if I can ask her a few follow-up questions. She replies almost right away, and we move to an online chat to continue our discussion. We go back and forth for almost an hour as she fills me in on the details of Vanessa’s disappearance. I’m soon convinced that this is a good case to cover on the podcast, and she’s agreed to do some legwork to help me, such as recording some quick interviews to include on the show and getting me a copy of the police report.
By the time we sign off, I’m charged with the electric thrill that always comes from deciding on a new case. I’m ready to tell this story, and if I do a good enough job, maybe the LDA will kick into overdrive and we’ll find Vanessa, or at least some closure for her loved ones. I know what it’s like to be in their shoes, and as long as this trail is still hot, I’m determined to do my best to help them follow it.
Once again, Radio Silent calms my anxiety and helps me focus on what’s important—what I can do—and as long as I’m hidden from Quinlee Ellacott by voice filters and firewalls, I don’t have to worry about becoming the story myself.
Unfortunately, it isn’t long before a wrench is tossed in my plans. When I wake up and reach for my phone first thing the next morning, it’s literally hot, thanks to a twitter feed that is completely on fire with so many mentions I can barely get a handle on them. It’s normal for a successfully solved case to churn up a bunch of fresh activity on my accounts, but this is beyond anything I’ve experienced.
I get to school a bit early and head straight to my first period classroom so I can have a few quiet minutes to dig around on my feeds.
There’s no way that @RadioSilentPodcast isn’t being bank-rolled by some big enterprise, says one tweet. I think we should channel the LDA and figure out where we can find them? says another. There are dozens and dozens of cryptic tweets like this, and the clincher: If anyone can figure out who she is, @QuinleeEllacott can.
My blood goes cold, and I click through to @Quinlee-Ellacott’s feed. Sure enough, pinned at the top is a brand-new message.
Do you know who is behind @RadioSilentPodcast? Help me and the @BNN team figure it out. Time to start our own online investigation!
“Oh for the love of—”
“What’s happening?” asks Burke, sliding into the desk next to me.
I show him my phone. He reads it and, to my immense irritation, laughs.
“She sure is stone cold,” he says.
I grab my phone back and stare at him like he has two heads. “This is a disaster. People want to know who I am, and now Quinlee Ellacott is trying to weasel her way into my business.”
“Dee,” says Burke reassuringly, “you have nothing to worry about. This isn’t the first time that you’ve been asked for more information.”
“Yeah, but it’s the first time an investigative journalist has been on the case too. What if she starts digging? What if she makes a connection between me and Sibby?”
“How would she?” he asks. “Besides, what’s the big deal if she does?”
I just shake my head. It’s easy for Burke to say. He isn’t trying to keep himself a secret.
He goes on. “I really don’t get it, Dee. I mean, you have a successful podcast. Your ratings are big and getting bigger. Maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about, but isn’t it a good thing that you’re starting to get attention?”
“No,” I say louder than I intend, bringing a few glances from the people in the hallway. I drop my voice and lean closer. “I wanted to stay anonymous. I did this because I thought, stupidly, it was a way to give back.”
“You are giving back,” he says. “And I think you’re crazy not to let yourself get acknowledged for it. But don’t worry, Dee. I give you my honest, most sincere promise.” He stops and puts his hand on his heart. “You are one hundred percent incognito. Your voice is disguised, your upload location is secure and encrypted, and nobody, not even Quinlee Ellacott and her crackerjack investigative team, is going to figure out who you are.”
I smile, realizing that I’m being kind of ridiculous. “Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”
“Besides,” he says. “Didn’t you say BNN is based in Vegas? That might as well be a million miles away. She’d have to do some crazy digging to figure out that the most popular true crime podcast—”
“Eleventh most popular,” I correct.
“Sorry, eleventh most popular true crime podcast is being recorded in the attic bedroom of some grunge-era stoner’s daughter.”
I groan. “Don’t remind me.”
“You’re a needle in a haystack, Dee. You’re an interesting needle, with a helluva backstory, but it’s one big-ass haystack.”
The first bell rings, and Sarah Cash saunters into the room, pulling earbuds off and shoving her phone into her bag. She runs her hand absently through her hair before she sits, and the way it falls back down into place, loose and slightly out of place, sends a tightness up my back. I realize I’ve been watching her and quickly drop my eyes to my desk, sinking back into my seat.
When I reach down into my backpack to grab my book, I notice Brianna across the room, her zipper case of colored pens and her hot pink Leuchtturm open on the desk in front of her. She’s making a big show out of picking out the perfect color pen, but when I look her way, she glances up at me with a smug, knowing smirk on her face. It’s obvious that she’s noticed me watching Sarah and has opinions about it. I want to grab her stupid perfect bullet journal and throw it out the window. Organize that, jerk.
I turn back to my phone, trying to ignore her.
Class has only just begun when there’s a rap on the door. Mr. Calderone lifts a finger, telling us to hold the thought, and walks over to answer it. He steps outside, and a moment later, he comes back into the room and points at Burke.
“Mr. O’Donnell,” he says. “Your presence is requested in the office.”
I turn to look at Burke, surprised, and he shrugs at me as he stands from his chair and walks past me on his way out of the room. A buzz makes its way through the room, but Mr. Calderone shuts it down, and soon we’re back to talking about the Russian Revolution.
Burke is gone until halfway through our next class, civics. He hands a note from the office to the teacher and returns to his seat beside me. I glance at him and he gives me a wide-eyed stare and mouths holy shit before pulling his textbook from his bag.
I’m not the kind of person to get interested in school gossip, but I’m dying to know what’s going on. I assume that if he was in trouble, he wouldn’t be back in class already.
When the teacher steps into the hallway to take a call, I turn quickly to Burke.
“What’s going on?” I whisper.
“You remember those people we met at the gas station yesterday?” he says, one eye on the doorway. “The ones who live in your old house?”
A shiver runs down my spine. A few seats over, I notice Brianna stiffen slightly, and although she’s staring intently at her textbook, running a finger down the page, I know she’s listening carefully.