If Something Happens to Me

by Alex Finlay

The heat hits her like a brick wall. Summer in Kansas would give hell a run for its money. In more ways than one.

Chaz leans down, tests the chains anchored to heavy cinder blocks. O’Leary nods. Chaz says, “Allow some last words?” O’Leary shakes his head. “You work in my territory without permission, you don’t get any last words. You get what’s coming.” “His people are gonna hit back at us,” Chaz reminds him. “And I’ll be waiting.” With that, Chaz and O’Leary each grab an arm and throw the man overboard.

She has three things seemingly lost in this world of social-media outrage: perspective, nuance, and empathy.

“Often, those who seem like we should trust them, seem like they are leaders we should follow, are anything but.”

The sun is starting to come down, casting a yellow glow over the man. It’s hard to tell in the light, but the man appears to be staring right at him. Then the strangest thing: The man removes a glove and waves up at Ryan. He’s missing his pinky finger.

When police arrested MRK, a man named Benedict Cromwell, last year at a campsite along the river, they didn’t find Alison Lane. But there was a strand of hair on Cromwell’s sleeping bag. It was a long strand, and the sheriff had the wherewithal to run it against Alison’s DNA. And there was a hit.

“You found something?” Poppy asks, trying to contain the eagerness in her voice. Chantelle swipes at her phone, then displays a photo. It’s of an envelope. On the outside it says: “If something happens to me.” A spurt of adrenaline shoots through Poppy. “Alison had this inside her purse?” Chantelle nods enthusiastically. “Did you open the envelope?” A dumb question. “Yes, and that’s the puzzling part. Inside was a note, but it seems to be written in code.”

11,5,1—4,4,2—6,1,4—3,4,1 7,4,3—10,2,6 9,5,1—4,2,5 5,1,2—2,1,1—10,2,6 8,3,1—3,5,1—6,2,2—7,3,6—5,3,1—13,2,1

In the ambient light, Ryan has a revelation that should’ve been obvious. Or maybe not. These classmates—these friends—are more than the sum of their cultivated social-media personas, more than the roles they play, more than the stereotypes. They’re like him. Trying to find their way. Trying to find out who they are. They party too much—are maybe too privileged—but they want to make the world kinder, better.

But in this moment, he decides he’s not going to run from himself anymore, not going to be afraid anymore. Tomorrow morning, he will confront The Monster.

O’Leary listens. It’s quiet. Then there’s a loud noise. The front door bursting open. It’s Gina. What in the— He sprints over, shields her with his body. “You need to get back to the car, it’s not—” It’s then he sees it in her face. White-hot panic. “What is it?” “I texted Nate’s mom to see if she could keep Anthony for tonight.”

“She said Anthony told them he needed to miss karate tonight.” An icy finger races up O’Leary’s spine. Without saying a word, he vaults up the stairs, two at a time. Anthony’s door is locked. O’Leary bangs on the door. When there’s no answer, he shoulders it until the jamb splinters away and the door cracks open. “No. Please, God. No!”

Poppy googles the podcast name and reads enough to discern that it’s the real deal. It’s ranked a top true crime podcast and has helped solve three cold cases. Everybody’s an investigator now. The message says he’s doing the show tonight. If it’s something important, she’d like to know about it before the public. She’s caught up on the tip line, so what’s she have to lose? She clicks on the link to the address. It’s in Kansas City, forty minutes away. Yeah, she needs to do her job.

The message pinned this address for the podcaster’s studio, but this is someone’s house. Maybe the studio is in the basement. “Hi, is your dad home?” The kid scrunches his face. “I don’t have a dad.” Poppy is taken aback. She glances at the numbers on the exterior of the house to make sure she’s at the right place: This is it. Maybe it was a crank tip after all. “I’m sorry, I’m looking for Ziggy de la Cruz.” “That’s me.” Oh. “You’re the host of the Treehouse podcast?” He nods. “I’m with the sheriff’s office. You sent a note to our tip line…” The kid’s eyes light up. He opens the door, motions for Poppy to come inside.

“Taylor, honey, what’s the matter?” She sits up, pushes her back against the headboard. Tears stream down her face, her breath jittering. “What is it, sweetie?” She’s probably heard about the fire, about Pendleton. Although that’s probably upsetting, he thinks it’s something more. “It’s Dylan,” she says. This takes him aback. Dylan, one of the kids from her friend group. The attorney general’s son. Then his heart smashes to the floor: one of the kids in the video. “What about him?” “He, like, overdosed.”

But then a more terrifying thought slams into him: What if this wasn’t an accidental overdose? “Lana doesn’t know.” Taylor starts crying again. “I’m so sorry.” Michael sits on the bed and opens his arm for a hug. “Do you think he’s going to be okay?” she asks, burying her head in his chest. Michael doesn’t answer. All he can think about is the video. Dylan unzipping his pants and urinating on the immobilized Anthony O’Leary.

The anchor reads the copy in a somber tone. “The Academy community is mourning a series of tragedies today. Last night, the home of the school’s headmaster, Leslie Pendleton, caught fire, killing the fifty-eight-year-old head of the elite private school. Officials initially deemed the fire suspicious, but the fire inspector has since reevaluated the scene and designated it an electrical fire.

Now, we have reports of another tragedy: Two Academy students were found unconscious. Both were rushed to the emergency room, where they died of what sources say appears to be a fentanyl overdose.”

Michael feels the acid crawling up his throat. O’Leary didn’t ask the natural question What tragedies?

O’Leary wants his money transferred to accounts that Michael doesn’t control. That means he has someone else helping him manage his funds. Someone to maintain the accounts in the event something happens to Michael …

“The two guys who showed up, they walked over to Ali’s car, looked inside. And her father sneaks up behind them and shoots both of them in the head.” Dash’s breaths are uneven now. “Dad and the sheriff came back. They caught the guy who took Ali from Lovers’ Lane. I thought they were going to kill him too, but they let him go. Then they helped Alison’s father put the dead guys in the BMW and roll the car into the lake.”

“We’ll be safe here. My military buddies live here. One of them’s the sheriff. He’s already got new papers for us.” Taylor is silent. She’s not crying anymore. She’s shell-shocked. “Your name is Alison Lane now…” He pauses. “I’m so sorry.” Michael couldn’t know then that she would thrive for four years in Leavenworth, graduate from high school—fall in love. Or that their troubled past would rise again when O’Leary and his men found them.

“How’s Nan?” Michael asks. He always liked Ken’s wife. “She’s doing as well as can be expected. The nurses and doctors at the new facility are first-rate. She even recognized me on my last visit.” Nan’s dementia has gotten much worse since Michael left. He sometimes wonders if the three men are being punished for their roles in a pointless war: his own wife’s cancer, Mac’s wife’s stroke, and Nan’s dementia. He shakes it off.

“I’ll call Marty, he’ll be able to help us get you a UK lawyer.” “You don’t have to do that. I can handle this myself. I don’t want you to spend more money on—” “Son, don’t you understand?” his father interrupts. “We’d spend every last penny we have to help you.” More tears well as Ryan collects himself. “Okay. Well, please tell Mom I’m okay,” he says. “She shouldn’t worry.” There’s another long silence. “After I call Marty, Mom and I will get on the next flight out. Where are they holding you?”

It’s near the church in Lackford. The spot where the road ends and the only access to church grounds is the footpath. A figure enters the frame, walking down the trail toward the old church. The footage is grainy, so you can’t make out much except that the person wears a baseball hat, a covid mask, and glasses. It could be anyone—a local on a morning constitutional, a parishioner heading to an early mass—except for one thing. The figure carries an axe.

Chaz dreads the day when they identify Patrick as one of the bodies in the car in that lake.

Maybe Ali and her father were in witness protection. That would explain why no one knows much about their background before Kansas. And who better to help you hide in a new town than the head of law enforcement there, Alison’s father’s old war buddy Sheriff Walton?

Then it hits Poppy: the viral video. It went viral two weeks before Ali was taken. Maybe Ali feared whoever she was hiding from would see the video and come to Leavenworth. But she didn’t know that would happen, hoped it would blow over as viral videos do and they wouldn’t see it. But they did. Who are they?

In law school they teach you that there are several definitions of legal insanity or “non compos mentis,” the Latin phrase Ryan’s criminal law professor favored. There’s the M’Naghten rule, the Irresistible Impulse test, the Durham rule, and the Model Penal Code test. But the true definition of insanity is driving more than twelve hours from London to the south of France when you’re six-four in a Mini Cooper.

A bell jangles when it opens. A small hallway leads to the main area of the gallery. There, his heart free-falls. It isn’t a grisly scene with the man with the axe. She’s standing behind a counter. Looking radiant. She’s frozen staring back at him. The silence holds for what feels like a lifetime. “Dodge?” Her tone is threaded with hope and disbelief. And something else, he realizes: fear. That’s confirmed when a tear rolls down her cheek and she mouths a single word to him. Run.

Chantelle nods, then waits as Poppy gets into the Ford Escort. Poppy watches as Chantelle walks across the shadowy lot to the employee section and gets inside her car. Before heading back to Leavenworth, Poppy checks her phone to see if there are any updates on her father or the sheriff. The lot is quiet, the only sound from the wind. Until she hears the voice coming from the back seat.

Gripping the wheel, he steps on the gas pedal. O’Leary puts the gun to his head. “Slow down.” Michael accelerates, screeching around cars on the bridge, gaining speed. O’Leary says something he can’t make out. Their vehicle is a blur on the busy road until Michael cuts the wheel sharply toward the protective barrier.