chaos. Maybe you’re not such a little shit stain after all.
< 21 >
“Ashley Frey’s original profile says she’s from Harrisburg,” Stevens said, “but as Muriel94, she claims to be from Orlando. Is that right?”
“Correct,” Windermere said. “And she told Adrian Miller she was sixteen. But Muriel94 was sixteen nearly four years ago.”
“So maybe it isn’t the same girl,” Stevens said. “Maybe there’s some kind of mix-up with the IPs or something, some kind of coincidence. Maybe there’s a couple different Ashley Freys on this forum.”
“Nope.” This was Mathers, lodged in a corner with his own laptop, scrolling through Muriel94’s chat logs. “This Muriel girl sends a picture of herself in this conversation I’m reading. Looks more than a little familiar.”
Stevens and Windermere abandoned their own computers. Crossed the room to where Mathers was holding up his laptop, a picture of a pretty teenage girl about Adrian Miller’s age, dark brown hair past her shoulders, a bright smile. A school picture. Windermere recognized it instantly.
“Ambriel98 sent that same picture to Adrian Miller,” she said, feeling that churning in her stomach switch to something more electric, her cop instincts taking over. “Three years after Muriel94 sent hers.”
“So either Ashley Frey found the fountain of youth,” Stevens said, “or she’s lying about her age. Who’s she talking to in that chat you’re reading, Derek?”
“Some kid in Texas,” Mathers told him. “Loco459. He tells her his name is R. J. Ramirez. Says he’s . . .” Mathers scanned the page. “Sick of life and everything about it, ready to join his brother in the next world. Seems like Muriel94 is trying to convince him to do it. ‘Do it for me,’ she says.”
“‘Do it for me.’” Stevens looked at Windermere, and his eyes were dark and concerned. “That’s exactly what Ashley Frey told Adrian Miller before he—”
“Yeah.” Windermere felt that tingling in her nerves turn into a buzz, a serious misgiving. She hurried back to her computer, punched R. J. Ramirez’s name into a Google search. The first result gave her what she was afraid she would find: “El Paso Teen Found Dead by Suicide.”
“Stevens,”
she said, clicking through. “Come here.”
Stevens caught her expression, came over fast. Read the news report on the screen. “‘Authorities say sixteen-year-old R. J. Ramirez leapt from a railway bridge to his death early Monday morning. Foul play is not suspected.’”
He looked up. “What the heck, Carla?”
“What the heck is right,” Windermere said, feeling her stomach start to churn. “What else can you give us on Ramirez, Mathers?”
“Muriel94 was trying to convince Ramirez to hang himself,” Mathers said, his nose still in his laptop. “Asked him if his computer had a camera, she could watch him do it. Ramirez was noncommittal, told her he wasn’t sure about the hanging part. Didn’t want his mother to find him.” He met her eyes. “That’s the last conversation they ever had.”
“And a month later, the next angel shows up.” Stevens was reading through Nenad’s username database. “Penemue96.”
“Penemue96 had an online relationship with a fourteen-year-oldfrom Sacramento, California, Shelley Clark,” Mathers said, eyes on his own screen. “Sent the same picture, same details. Only, this time, Ashley Frey claimed to be from Detroit, Michigan.”
“Shelley Clark committed suicide in November of that year,” Windermere said. “Hanged herself in her bedroom, according to this article.”
“At Ashley Frey’s urging, apparently,” Mathers said. “Again with the webcam, with the rope. ‘Do it for me’ all over again, just like with Adrian Miller. Shit, Carla, who the hell is this girl?”
Windermere didn’t answer for a moment, staggered by the implications. This wasn’t about finding some suicidal mystery girl, not any longer. There was something going
< 21 >
“Ashley Frey’s original profile says she’s from Harrisburg,” Stevens said, “but as Muriel94, she claims to be from Orlando. Is that right?”
“Correct,” Windermere said. “And she told Adrian Miller she was sixteen. But Muriel94 was sixteen nearly four years ago.”
“So maybe it isn’t the same girl,” Stevens said. “Maybe there’s some kind of mix-up with the IPs or something, some kind of coincidence. Maybe there’s a couple different Ashley Freys on this forum.”
“Nope.” This was Mathers, lodged in a corner with his own laptop, scrolling through Muriel94’s chat logs. “This Muriel girl sends a picture of herself in this conversation I’m reading. Looks more than a little familiar.”
Stevens and Windermere abandoned their own computers. Crossed the room to where Mathers was holding up his laptop, a picture of a pretty teenage girl about Adrian Miller’s age, dark brown hair past her shoulders, a bright smile. A school picture. Windermere recognized it instantly.
“Ambriel98 sent that same picture to Adrian Miller,” she said, feeling that churning in her stomach switch to something more electric, her cop instincts taking over. “Three years after Muriel94 sent hers.”
“So either Ashley Frey found the fountain of youth,” Stevens said, “or she’s lying about her age. Who’s she talking to in that chat you’re reading, Derek?”
“Some kid in Texas,” Mathers told him. “Loco459. He tells her his name is R. J. Ramirez. Says he’s . . .” Mathers scanned the page. “Sick of life and everything about it, ready to join his brother in the next world. Seems like Muriel94 is trying to convince him to do it. ‘Do it for me,’ she says.”
“‘Do it for me.’” Stevens looked at Windermere, and his eyes were dark and concerned. “That’s exactly what Ashley Frey told Adrian Miller before he—”
“Yeah.” Windermere felt that tingling in her nerves turn into a buzz, a serious misgiving. She hurried back to her computer, punched R. J. Ramirez’s name into a Google search. The first result gave her what she was afraid she would find: “El Paso Teen Found Dead by Suicide.”
“Stevens,”
she said, clicking through. “Come here.”
Stevens caught her expression, came over fast. Read the news report on the screen. “‘Authorities say sixteen-year-old R. J. Ramirez leapt from a railway bridge to his death early Monday morning. Foul play is not suspected.’”
He looked up. “What the heck, Carla?”
“What the heck is right,” Windermere said, feeling her stomach start to churn. “What else can you give us on Ramirez, Mathers?”
“Muriel94 was trying to convince Ramirez to hang himself,” Mathers said, his nose still in his laptop. “Asked him if his computer had a camera, she could watch him do it. Ramirez was noncommittal, told her he wasn’t sure about the hanging part. Didn’t want his mother to find him.” He met her eyes. “That’s the last conversation they ever had.”
“And a month later, the next angel shows up.” Stevens was reading through Nenad’s username database. “Penemue96.”
“Penemue96 had an online relationship with a fourteen-year-oldfrom Sacramento, California, Shelley Clark,” Mathers said, eyes on his own screen. “Sent the same picture, same details. Only, this time, Ashley Frey claimed to be from Detroit, Michigan.”
“Shelley Clark committed suicide in November of that year,” Windermere said. “Hanged herself in her bedroom, according to this article.”
“At Ashley Frey’s urging, apparently,” Mathers said. “Again with the webcam, with the rope. ‘Do it for me’ all over again, just like with Adrian Miller. Shit, Carla, who the hell is this girl?”
Windermere didn’t answer for a moment, staggered by the implications. This wasn’t about finding some suicidal mystery girl, not any longer. There was something going
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