Remember Me? (Book 1) COMPLETED

Christmas

KATHERINE

By the time Matthew came back with Erland, the postman arrived to deliver a package. As soon as I saw Betsy's neat cursive and felt the weight, I tore into the brown paper. My old computer! I settled in to charge it at the kitchen island while Erland trailed behind, complaining to Matthew about his history homework.

"Can you believe Mr. Soan assigned an essay before the end of the semester?" Erland dug through the pantry, pulling out a pack of crackers.

Matthew laughed. "Wouldn't you prefer an essay to a test?"

Erland rolled his eyes. "Please. If I'm going to fail, I would rather spend two hours in a final exam than two weeks writing."

I shot him a look and he cleared his throat, snatched up the cracker box, and rushed downstairs.

"Careful," I shouted after him, "or you'll trip and hurt yourself!"

While Matthew started cooking dinner, I turned on the computer and navigated to my files. Almost all of them wiped. Not one hint of Starlight Crows. I navigated to my emails. At least there, I should, have some kind of evidence.

Many emails from Gramps. Something about Erland's 14th birthday last year, my flight to Alabama a few months ago—and there, in my inbox, an email from Victoria Pitchner. A hard lump formed in my throat as I read the words: Five-Year Anniversary. I almost slammed the computer closed when Matthew's words echoed back to me from last month: "You've said before that your grandfather has it out for you. Could he have orchestrated something behind the scenes?"

Bracing myself for the happy, I-have-a-better-life-than-you pictures, I clicked on the email. Then, I looked at the email under Victoria Pitchner—and gasped.

As true as I knew the sky was blue, this was not Victoria's email. Very, very similar. But not hers.

"Matthew," I breathed. He paused and I pointed to the screen. "Look at this." I explained the emails. "Do you have anyone that could find out who made this email?"

Matthew shook his head. "No, but maybe someone who's into software can."

As soon as he said the words, I knew who to ask. Shane. I snatched my phone, snapped a picture, and texted it to Shane with a message explaining the situation. He responded within a few minutes: Let me see what I can do. Forward me the email.

I forward him the email and shut the computer. "Matthew," I said, "how much of this can be used for evidence?"

Matthew shrugged. "Depends on how it's collected." Then, he smiled. "What can't be used as official evidence may be used for more... coercive methods. Some people see a lawsuit and blank, regardless of the quality of the evidence behind it."

Perfect.

I organized the computer upstairs with the other items I'd collected: the manuscript, Shane's emails. By the time I made my way downstairs for dinner, my phone pinged with a message from Shane.

Shane: This is the IP address of the person who made the account. I can't match it to anybody without having their address already stored, but I can tell you the email was sent from Pennsylvania.

I texted him my thanks. That was all I needed.

Regardless of who sent the emails—and I had a very strong suspicion I knew exactly who it was—it couldn't have been Tori. There was no doubt she'd spent the past five years in Alabama, even if she had gotten the chance to travel in the past year as Nick said. Even so, knowing that Tori wasn't at fault for this didn't pull the thorn out of my heart. Or the knife out of my back.