Chương 9
“Did you keep the notebook in that compartment?”
“Yes.”
“Did your husband know about it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Had he seen you use it?”
“Probably.”
“That’s different from knowing what was in it.”
“Yes.”
She slid another photograph toward me.
It showed the torn binding near the center.
“Approximately how many pages are missing?”
I counted the stubs.
“Four.”
“Front and back?”
“Yes.”
“Eight written pages?”
“Probably.”
“You said names were on them.”
“Names and identifiers.”
“Whose?”
I began listing them.
Julian.
His supervisor, Martin Voss.
The vendor liaison, Celia Grant.
Two systems engineers.
A compliance officer.
Then I stopped.
Patel waited.
“There was another identifier.”
“A person?”
“I thought so.”
“Name?”
“I didn’t have one.”
“What did you have?”
“Initials.”
“Which initials?”
I stared at the photograph.
“E.M.”
Patel’s pen paused.
“Could that be Eleanor Mercer?”
My skin prickled.
I had never said Eleanor’s last name aloud during the statement.
Of course Patel knew it from the preliminary information.
Still, hearing the initials expanded into her name felt wrong.
“No.”
“You’re certain?”
“She has nothing to do with university technology contracts.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s retired.”
“From what?”
I opened my mouth and stopped.
Eleanor had described herself as retired for as long as I had known her.
Before that, she had worked in administration.
That was the word Julian always used.
Administration.
I had never asked where.
The omission seemed ridiculous now.
“Some kind of procurement work.”
“At the university?”
“I don’t know.”
Patel leaned back.
“How long have you been married?”
“Six years.”
“And you don’t know where your mother-in-law worked?”
There was no accusation in her voice, which made the question more embarrassing.
“She and I weren’t close.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No.”
I rubbed my thumb against the place where my wedding ring had been.
I had removed it before the defense because the swelling hurt.
The pale band around my finger looked obscene.
“I never asked.”
Patel wrote something down.
I hated the sound of her pen.
“Can you access a copy of the missing pages?”
“Maybe.”
Her eyes lifted.
“I photograph notebooks sometimes before meetings.”
“You photographed these?”
“I might have.”
“Where would the images be?”
“My phone or cloud backup.”
She pushed the evidence sleeve aside.
“Check.”
My fingers felt clumsy on the screen.
The photos app contained thousands of images, mostly lab equipment, whiteboards, receipts, and pictures of other people’s dogs.
I searched by date.
Nothing.
Then I remembered I had scanned some notebook pages using a document app because I needed searchable text.
The scan folder opened.
There were twenty-seven files.
The most recent was from three days earlier.
I tapped it.
Eight pages appeared.
The missing pages.
Patel moved her chair closer.
“Don’t send anything yet.”
I handed her the phone.
She read silently.
On the sixth page, beside three authorization tokens, I had written E.M.? in the margin.
Underneath was a note to myself.
Legacy vendor account.
Active credential despite employee termination 2019.
Check procurement archive.
Patel looked at me.
“You wrote this?”
“Yes.”
“What employee?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Why procurement?”
“The credential prefix matched an old administrative system.”
“Can you identify who E.M. is from these records?”
“Possibly.”
“How?”
“There should be archived directories.”
“Public?”
“Some are internal.”
“Can you access them?”
“With university credentials, probably.”
She took my phone back to the table.
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because now we know pages containing this information were removed from your notebook after your husband took possession of the bag.”
The phrase after your husband took possession sounded careful enough to be legally useful.
“He could say they were already missing.”
“Yes.”
“They weren’t.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“The scan.”
“The scan proves the pages existed three days ago.”
Her eyes held mine.
“It does not prove they were still in the notebook when he picked up the bag.”
That irritated me.
“He tore them out.”
“You believe he did.”
“I know he did.”
Patel remained quiet.
Cho’s warning returned.
Fear is evidence of fear.
Nothing more.
I looked away.
“Right.”
“This is why we document.”
My phone buzzed on the table.
Julian.
Patel glanced at the screen.
“Do you want to answer?”
“No.”
It stopped.
A voicemail notification appeared.
Then another call came in.
Eleanor.
I declined it.
A text arrived almost immediately.
You have created a terrible misunderstanding.
I showed Patel.
She photographed the screen.
Another message appeared before she finished.
Julian only brought your belongings because he knew you would need them.
Then a third.
You are destroying your marriage over academic hysteria.
Patel’s expression changed slightly at that one.
“Do not reply.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
I wanted to.
I wanted to type one sentence explaining that I had passed.
I wanted Eleanor to know that the hair, the drives, the music, the threat, all of it had failed.
The desire embarrassed me because it was childish and powerful.
I put the phone face down.
Patel asked, “Can you stay somewhere other than the apartment tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Somewhere he doesn’t know?”
“I can find somewhere.”
“That’s not the same answer.”
I thought of the motel.
Julian could discover it from the card charge.
“Hale offered her guest room.”
“Does your husband know where she lives?”
“Probably not.”
“Use your judgment, but consider a location he cannot easily predict.”
She gave me information about protective orders, victim services, and evidence preservation.
I listened badly.
The language sounded too official for something that had happened between my refrigerator and stove.
By noon, the department building had returned almost entirely to normal.
Students waited outside Cho’s office.
Someone microwaved fish in the faculty lounge and made half the floor smell terrible.
A printer jammed.
Two undergraduates argued over a charging outlet.
My degree existed now, at least pending paperwork and revisions, but nobody outside a small circle knew.
I stood alone in the restroom and looked at myself beneath fluorescent light.
The plum scarf had slipped backward.
May you like
A ragged patch of hair showed near my temple.
I removed the scarf completely.
