Part 3 — Harlans Chimney Box
The address on the bank account that Monty read me was a rented farmhouse on Mill Road, eleven minutes from the Rourke place. The renter was Lamar Dugan, the handyman, and he had opened the account in Jenna Rourkes name in 2021.
I sat in my truck with my hands on the wheel while Monty explained. The seven licenses were not trophies. They were the stolen identities Lamar had collected from purses and wallets over the years, used to open accounts, borrow money and rent places he never paid for.
The three women listed as missing were not missing the way I feared. A state investigator worked through the night and located all three. One was living quietly under a new name after leaving a bad marriage. The other two had moved away and lost touch with their families.
Jenna was alive and well in Portland, Oregon. She had left home at nineteen after an argument with her father and never found the courage to call. She had stopped answering his letters because the ones she got were not from him. They were typed by Lamar, asking for money.
For nine years Harlan sent love in an envelope, and a thief collected it before it ever reached his daughter.
Lamar had been sending Christmas cards in Jennas name for years. That way Harlan believed she was safe, and kept paying for her imaginary college courses, her moving costs and her doctor visits, in checks that Lamar cashed.
State police arrested Lamar at the farmhouse that evening. He was charged with identity theft, forgery, wire fraud and exploitation of an elderly man. The gray cash box was entered into evidence, and every license was returned to its owner or her family.
Jenna answered the investigators call on the second ring. She cried for ten minutes, then asked for her fathers number. I was in the kitchen when Harlan picked up the phone. He listened, set his coffee down and said only one word, Jenny.
She flew in the following Friday. Harlan met her on the porch in his good cardigan. I cleaned that chimney free of charge, set a new cap on the flue and lit the first fire myself, with father and daughter sitting side by side on the couch.
The graduation photo is still above the mantel. Next to it now stands a second picture, taken that winter, with the same freckles and the same gap in the smile.