Chapter 8 - A Dead Woman's Letter)
Mark opened Emily's letter at the kitchen table.
Seven years disappeared.
He could almost smell her shampoo.
Hear her laugh.
Feel the way she used to press cold feet against his legs in bed and then deny doing it.
The first sentence nearly destroyed him.
Mark,
If you are reading this, then someone finally found where they kept me.
He stopped.
Noah's name appeared farther down.
He forced himself to continue.
Victor says the crash was an accident, but I know it wasn't. He keeps asking what I told you about the company accounts. I keep telling him nothing because that is the truth. I was planning to tell you that night.
I am scared.
But I need you to know something more important.
Lauren knows.
She came into this room yesterday.
She cried.
She told me she was sorry.
I begged her to call you.
She said if she did, Victor would kill Noah.
I don't know whether she believes that or whether she is protecting herself.
If I don't come home, raise our boy knowing I tried.
Tell him I loved him every second.
And Mark, if Michael ever starts asking about the accounts, make him stop.
Please.
I cannot lose both of you.
The letter ended there.
Mark remained seated long after everyone else stopped speaking.
Lauren stood across the kitchen.
“You saw her,” Mark said.
Lauren nodded.
“Alive.”
“Yes.”
“You spoke to her.”
“Yes.”
“She begged you.”
Lauren covered her face.
Mark did not raise his voice.
That frightened her more.
“What happened after she wrote this?”
“Victor moved her.”
“Where?”
“I didn't know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it's true.”
Coleman stepped in.
“Emily Carter's death certificate lists a hospital physician named Aaron Pike.”
Lauren looked up.
“Dana's husband.”
Coleman nodded.
“The woman who tried entering Abigail's hospital room.”
Pieces were finally connecting.
Victor Hale.
Dana Pike.
Dr. Aaron Pike.
A network.
Not one frightened accountant making terrible decisions.
A system.
Coleman requested a review of deaths certified by Dr. Pike during the years he worked at Ashford Memorial.
Dozens looked ordinary.
Three did not.
Emily Carter.
Jenna Bennett.
And an unidentified man found two years after Michael's fire.
The unidentified man had been cremated.
The authorization came from Dana Pike.
Mark thought of Michael's video.
If you're seeing this, I didn't make it back.
“Michael,” he whispered.
Coleman nodded.
“Possibly.”
The doorbell rang.
Every officer in the house reacted.
Ruiz checked the camera.
A delivery driver stood outside holding a cardboard box.
No sender.
Bomb squad inspected it.
Safe.
Inside was Noah's other shoe.
And a phone.
The phone rang immediately.
Mark answered.
Victor spoke.
“You've been busy.”
“I want my son.”
“You'll have him.”
“Prove he's alive.”
A pause.
Noah came on.
“Dad?”
Mark's eyes closed.
“Buddy.”
“I'm okay.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Can you see anything?”
Victor interrupted.
“Enough.”
Mark shouted, “Noah, listen to me—”
The line changed.
Victor again.
“You have six hours.”
“For what?”
“Bring Michael's flash drive and original letter to Ravenwood.”
Coleman wrote the location down.
“Why Ravenwood?”
“History deserves symmetry.”
“You'll release Noah?”
“Yes.”
“How do I know?”
“You don't.”
Mark gripped the phone.
“Victor.”
“Yes?”
“If Michael is dead, say it.”
Silence.
Then Victor laughed.
“You Bennetts never learned when to stop digging.”
The call disconnected.
Coleman immediately began planning surveillance around Ravenwood.
Mark stared at the phone.
Something bothered him.
Victor hadn't answered.
Not yes.
Not no.
He remembered Michael's recording date.
Two years after the fire.
The unidentified body certified by Dr. Pike had been found months later.
Maybe it was Michael.
Maybe not.
Then Abigail entered the kitchen accompanied by Evelyn and a police officer.
She had been released from the hospital into emergency protective placement.
When she saw Mark, she ran to him.
He knelt and hugged her.
She noticed Emily's photograph on the table.
“That's the lady.”
Mark froze.
“What lady?”
Abigail pointed.
“She was at Uncle Vic's house.”
Every adult in the room stopped moving.
Mark stared at the photograph of Emily.
“When?”
Abigail shrugged.
“A long time.”
“How long?”
“She had short hair then.”
Emily's hair had been long when she disappeared.
Mark's heartbeat thundered.
“Did she tell you her name?”
Abigail nodded.
“Em.”
Mark grabbed the back of the chair.
Emily might not have died seven years ago.
May you like
Abigail had seen her.
And Abigail was only five.
