Chương 8
"What now?"
Marcus did not answer.
Because he was looking at the table.
The folder was still there.
But something was missing.
The medical form with his name on it was gone.
Marcus did not move.
The empty space where the document had been seemed louder than anything else in the room.
He looked at the folder.
Then at Rachel.
Then back at the folder.
"Where is it?"
Rachel followed his eyes.
Her expression changed immediately.
"What?"
"The medical form."
She stepped closer.
"What are you talking about?"
"The one with my name on it."
Rachel looked through the papers quickly.
Then again.
Her movements became faster.
"It was here."
Marcus heard the fear in her voice.
Not confusion.
Fear.
That mattered.
"Who came inside?"
"No one."
"Rachel."
"No one came inside."
She looked toward the front door.
"It was locked."
Marcus walked to the table.
He picked up the remaining papers.
Nothing else was missing.
The photographs.
The notes.
The letters.
Only the one document.
The one connected to him.
"How would someone know which one to take?"
Rachel did not answer.
She did not need to.
Someone had known.
Marcus felt the same cold feeling from the phone call spread through him.
"You need to call the police."
Rachel looked at him.
"Do you want to?"
The question stopped him.
Because he did not know.
He had spent months believing the police report about Claire's death was the end of a terrible event.
Now he was not sure what he would even report.
A missing piece of paper.
A stranger's phone call.
A dead wife who had hidden something from him.
It sounded impossible.
It sounded like grief creating a story because reality was too painful.
But the missing document was real.
"Marcus."
He looked at Rachel.
"You can't keep doing this alone."
He almost responded.
The words were ready.
I can handle it.
He had said them so many times they no longer felt like words.
They felt like armor.
But then he looked toward the hallway where Emma slept.
And he realized the armor was getting heavy.
Rachel nodded.
She did not look relieved.
She looked sad.
As if she knew making the call did not mean he had accepted help.
It only meant he had reached the point where he could no longer pretend he did not need it.
Marcus called Detective Lena Ortiz because she had been the officer assigned to the original hospital report.
He had met her once.
Briefly.
She was professional.
Kind without being overly sympathetic.
The kind of person who knew grief did not need another person telling it what shape to take.
She arrived forty minutes later.
She walked through the house slowly.
She asked simple questions.
Who had access?
Who knew about the documents?
When were they last seen?
Marcus appreciated that she did not immediately suggest explanations.
She did not say it was probably nothing.
She did not say it was probably someone they knew.
She just collected facts.
When she finished, she looked at him.
"You said this document came from your wife's investigation."
"Yes."
"Do you know what was on it?"
"No."
"Then why was it important?"
Marcus looked at the table.
"Because someone wanted it."
Detective Ortiz nodded.
"That's possible."
The careful wording bothered him.
"Possible?"
She looked at him.
"Marcus, a missing document can mean several things."
"Someone took it."
"Maybe."
"Then what else?"
"It could have been misplaced."
He stared at her.
"You think I misplaced something from my dead wife's papers?"
"No."
Her answer was immediate.
"I think people under stress can lose track of things."
The response was reasonable.
He hated that.
Because reasonable things were easier to argue with.
"Someone called me tonight."
Ortiz took out her notebook.
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"Number?"
"Blocked."
"What did they say?"
Marcus repeated the conversation.
Every word he remembered.
Ortiz wrote quietly.
When he finished, she looked up.
"Did they threaten you?"
"Not directly."
"Did they threaten Emma?"
"No."
"Did they mention Claire by name?"
"Yes."
Ortiz closed the notebook.
"I want you to understand something."
Marcus waited.
"Right now, we have a pattern of unusual events."
"That sounds like a polite way of saying you don't believe me."
"I believe you experienced them."
He looked away.
"But?"
"But I need evidence that connects them."
Marcus nodded slowly.
He understood.
He just did not like it.
Evidence.
The word kept following him.
His wife had spent months looking for it.
Now he was doing the same thing.
"Do you know a Maya Ellis?"
The question changed the room.
Ortiz looked at him.
"Why?"
"Because she was with Claire."
"When?"
"Before she died."
Ortiz wrote the name down.
"You didn't mention her earlier."
"I didn't know about her earlier."
The detective studied him.
"That's important."
"Why?"
"Because if she was involved in your wife's investigation, I need to know what role she played."
Marcus looked at the window.
He thought about Maya sitting across from him.
The way she admitted she did not know everything.
The way she carried Claire's fear like it belonged to her.
"I don't know if she's involved."
"Do you trust her?"
The question caught him off guard.
He thought about the flight.
The baby.
The airport.
The envelope.
The photograph.
"I don't know."
Ortiz nodded.
"That's probably the honest answer."
After she left, Marcus stayed awake.
Rachel eventually went to bed.
Emma woke twice.
The house became quiet in the way houses became quiet after midnight.
Not peaceful.
Just empty.
Marcus sat at the kitchen table with Claire's note in front of him.
He had read it so many times the paper was beginning to bend at the folds.
Please trust Maya.
He hated those words.
Not because he doubted Claire.
Because he trusted her too much.
That was the problem.
He trusted her enough to believe she must have had a reason.
But he did not know what that reason was.
His phone buzzed.
May you like
A message.
From Maya.
