The Never Game

She was breathing hard. And, it seemed, trying to keep tears at bay. “You’re wondering how I knew. Well, take a look.” Her voice choked yet she had a sardonic smile on her face, just the lips. The eyes were a blend of sorrow and ice. She walked to her computer and sat down heavily in the seat. “I’ve got a new video game, Colt. A hard one. I don’t mean difficult. I mean it makes you feel shitty. I call it the Judas Game. Take a look.”

Onto the screen came not a game but a video, a wide-angle view, like that taken by a security cam. It was of this very living room and had been filmed within the past couple of hours. Colter Shaw was rifling through her books, opening drawers, reaching onto the tops of bookcases. He’d been looking for the gun. You couldn’t see him photograph the medicine bottles — that was in the bathroom — but you could see the flash from his phone.

She shut off the clip. “I told you about Twitch and the other streaming game sites where your fans want to see you playing? I was online earlier and forgot to shut the camera off. It wasn’t broadcasting, just recording. I don’t use a webcam. It’s a wide-angle security camera. Better night vision. There’s no red record light on it.”

Same thing he’d done at the Quick Byte, the first time there, to record anyone who was particularly interested in Sophie Mulliner’s pictures.

Maddie reached for her backpack. She rummaged for a moment, then withdrew a small slip of paper. She handed it to him. It was a purchase receipt.

“A used-book store near Stanford. Specializes in gaming books. Check the date on the receipt. I bought it for you today and made some notes in it about the game, things I thought might be helpful. I didn’t have a chance to give it to you.” She looked to the bedroom.

“As for hitting on you? No, I wasn’t following you, I didn’t track you into the Quick Byte. Believe it or not, Colter, I saw a handsome dude, kind of a cowboy, tough, quiet, on a mission, looking for this missing girl. My sort of guy.” She swallowed. “No motives, no agendas. It’s a lonely life. Don’t we all try to make it less lonely?

“And the scars... Sure, the scars... May as well have everything out. You’ve bought yourself the lurid details. I got married when I was nineteen. Love of my life. Joe and I lived outside of L.A., owned an athletic outfit store, ran day trips — you know, biking, hiking, rafting, skiing. It was heaven. Then a customer turned into a stalker. Totally psychotic. One night when my sister and her boyfriend were visiting he broke in and shot my husband and sister. Killed them both. I ran into the kitchen and got a knife. He took it away and stabbed me fourteen times before my sister’s boyfriend tackled him.

“I almost died. A couple of times. Had nine surgeries. In the hospital and housebound for a year and two weeks. Video games were the only things that kept me from killing myself. See, for me, Colter, the Never After Club is real. It’s not a commitment thing. There is no ‘after’ for me. Literally. I died four years ago.

“Look me up. It was all over the press in southern California. Maddie Gibson was my name then. I changed back to my maiden name because that asshole kept sending me love letters from prison.” She shook her head. “I got back a half hour ago and saw the video. What the hell were you up to? I was thinking, maybe doing this reward stuff, the people you go after — like the kidnapper here — maybe that pushed you over the edge. Maybe you were a killer, a thief. It wasn’t logical. But you go through what I did, it makes you a little paranoid, Colt.

“So. I had to find out. I moved my car around the corner and grabbed that” — she glanced to the floor where the knife lay — “and waited for you to come back.” Some tears now.

“Look...” Shaw began. He stopped when she lifted a brow. Now her eyes were the cold green of a dull emerald.

He fell silent. What was there to say?

That his restless mind sometimes took over and drove him to find the answers no matter what the cost?

That fragments of his father’s paranoia and suspicion were lodged in his genes?

That he couldn’t quite eradicate the images of Kyle Butler’s and Henry Thompson’s bodies, still and bloody?

Those were all true. They were also excuses.

He offered a faint nod — a flag signifying both his crime and the utter inadequacy of any remedies.

Colter Shaw walked to the door and, without a look back, let himself out.

At his car, he was startled by the squeal of tires coming his way. His hand dropping toward his weapon, he glanced to his left. It was the unmarked car that had accompanied him, speeding forward, now with its blue-and-white grille lights flashing. It skidded to a stop abruptly, directly beside him, the passenger window coming down.

The uniformed woman officer said, “Mr. Shaw, Detective Standish just radioed. There’s been another kidnapping. Can you follow us to the Task Force?”

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