PART 7 – On the Record
Evelyn agreed to the interview against her better judgment.
It wasn’t for the spotlight. It wasn’t even for herself.
It was for Jamie.
If a ten-year-old could survive captivity and still speak through fear, she figured she could manage thirty minutes in front of a camera.
The reporter — a young woman named Tessa Bright — arrived promptly at 9 a.m. with a two-person crew and an apology already forming in her smile.
“I know interviews can feel intrusive,” Tessa said as she set up a small camera on Evelyn’s porch. “But people need stories like this right now. Stories about people who don’t give up.”
Evelyn gave a dry chuckle. “I didn’t realize listening counted as heroism.”
Tessa paused before responding. “Most people hear. Very few listen.”
The flattery made Evelyn bristle slightly, but she let it go. The camera rolled.
Tessa started with the expected questions — Evelyn’s background, how long she served as a dispatcher, what made her keep the old scanner.
Evelyn answered with short, direct sentences. The rhythm of old reports came back easily.
Then came the deeper cuts.
“Can I ask,” Tessa said gently, “what it felt like when you heard Jamie’s voice for the first time?”
Evelyn folded her hands. “Like someone opened a window in a room I didn’t realize was sealed shut.”
Tessa nodded. “You knew right away it was real?”
“Not with my head. But with my bones.”
Then the question Evelyn hadn’t anticipated:
“Was there ever a moment in your career when you didn’t get to someone in time?”
The camera lens suddenly felt too close.
“Yes,” Evelyn said quietly. “More than one. One in particular. A boy. 1991.”
She stopped there.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was sacred.
Tessa didn’t push.
But she also didn’t end the interview.
Instead, she asked something that caught Evelyn off guard: “Did you ever feel like this — what happened with Jamie — was a kind of… redemption?”
Evelyn looked out at the yard, where Carl’s wind chimes swayed in the breeze.
“I don’t believe in earning forgiveness,” she said slowly. “But I do believe in paying attention. And sometimes, paying attention saves a life.”
Tessa smiled and nodded. “That’s the line I’ve been looking for.”
But just as she reached to turn off the camera, the porch gate creaked.
A man in a sheriff’s jacket stepped up. He wasn’t young — maybe mid-fifties — with thick glasses and a mustache that made him look like a high school football coach.
“You Evelyn Monroe?” he asked.
“I am.”
He held up a folder. “I’m with Dauphin County. Been working a missing persons case since January. One we think ties to the man you helped expose — Raymond Crawley.”
Evelyn straightened in her chair.
“The boy’s name was Tyler Garrison. Twelve years old. Went missing near a junkyard in Steelton. Crawley was spotted there two days after.”
Evelyn’s stomach turned cold.
“We think Jamie’s voice might not be the only one that tried to reach out,” the sheriff said, handing her a small plastic bag.
Inside was a cracked toy walkie-talkie.
Found near the scene.
Frequencies unknown.
Evelyn looked up, the blood rushing in her ears.
“Do you think it still works?” she asked.
The sheriff shrugged. “That’s why I brought it to you.”
That night, Evelyn sat at her table with the walkie-talkie resting beside her scanner. She unscrewed the back carefully, replaced the corroded battery with one from an old flashlight, and tuned it to match the old band Jamie had come through.
She pressed the button.
“Tyler… if you’re out there… I’m listening.”
Only static replied.
But Evelyn didn’t turn it off.
Not this time.
PART 8 – The Other Frequency
Evelyn didn’t sleep that night.
She sat with the toy walkie-talkie on the kitchen table, its tiny red light blinking softly like a heartbeat. Next to it was her old scanner, headset unplugged, the dial tuned between frequencies like a diviner searching for water.
But all she got was static.
She waited anyway.
Somewhere between 2 and 3 a.m., she heard it — not a voice exactly, but a pulse.
A rhythmic blip, repeating every eight seconds.
It wasn’t on Jamie’s frequency. It was slightly higher, faint, nearly inaudible.
She grabbed a notepad and scribbled: Pulse signal. 470.9 MHz. Repeats every 8 sec. Source unknown.
At dawn, she drove to the station.
Mace met her in the parking lot with a coffee and tired eyes. “You really don’t sleep, huh?”
Evelyn handed him the notepad.
He read it, brows furrowing. “Could be a lot of things. Old weather tower. Emergency beacon. Kids messing with ham gear.”
“Or,” Evelyn said, “a second boy trying to reach out.”
Mace looked at her carefully. “You’re not letting go, are you?”
“No,” she said flatly. “Not while there’s breath in my body and static in the air.”
Back in his office, Mace opened the folder the Dauphin County sheriff had dropped off the day before.
Tyler Garrison.
Age twelve. Disappeared on January 11th.
Last seen near a truck stop in Steelton, trying to return a stray dog to someone who’d posted flyers. One witness remembered a red Ford pickup with mismatched side mirrors.
Evelyn froze.
“Mismatched mirrors,” she said. “Jamie mentioned that. Said the driver’s side one shook a lot.”
Mace nodded. “Crawley had his old truck towed and crushed after your tip. Too clean, too fast. We’re still digging.”
Evelyn tapped the folder. “This boy… Tyler. He might still be out there.”
“Or he might not,” Mace said gently. “And I know you don’t want to hear that.”
Evelyn met his eyes. “You think I’m chasing ghosts.”
“I think you’ve always chased voices,” he said. “And sometimes those voices come from inside.”
She didn’t flinch.
“I’ll find this frequency,” she said. “And if there’s anything on it, I’ll know.”
That afternoon, she got a knock on the door.
A tall man with hard eyes stood on her porch. Tattoos inked up his arms, and he smelled faintly of rust and oil.
“You Evelyn Monroe?”
She didn’t answer.
“I knew Crawley,” he said. “Long time ago. We weren’t friends.”
Still, she said nothing.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a weathered photo. Two boys. One looked like a young Crawley. The other wore a crooked smile and held a toy walkie-talkie in his hand.
“That’s my little brother,” the man said. “Name was Jesse. Went missing in ’95. Near Steelton.”
Evelyn took the photo, heart sinking.
“I think Crawley started earlier than anyone knows,” he continued. “And I think he kept those radios as trophies. My brother had that walkie in his backpack the day he vanished.”
Evelyn’s voice came low. “Why bring this to me?”
“Because you’re the first person who actually listened to someone no one else could hear.”
He left without another word.
Evelyn stood frozen on the porch, the photo heavy in her hand. She studied the boy’s face. The smile. The toy.
The same model now blinking on her kitchen table.
That night, she tuned the scanner again — not just to Jamie’s frequency, or Tyler’s pulse — but to the space between.
Static.
Then:
“…Jess?”
The voice was weak. Like it had traveled through years of silence.
Evelyn leaned in, heart hammering.
“Is someone there?” she whispered into the walkie.
A long pause.
Then a crackle. “I hear you…”
