“The ledger you handed over,” she said carefully, “it’s missing pages.”
I sat up. “What?”
“Sections were torn out,” Harper continued. “Cleanly. Like someone knew exactly what they wanted removed.”
A cold wave rolled through me. “When?”
“We don’t know,” she admitted. “Could’ve been before you found it. Could’ve been after. We logged it, sealed it, but federal evidence moves through hands. Too many hands.”
For the first time since the arrests, I felt that same old paranoia snap back into place like a collar.
“I need to see it,” I said.
“You can’t,” Harper replied. “Not without the task force. And Matt… there’s another thing missing.”
I waited, bracing.
“Your home security footage from that final night,” she said. “The files are corrupted. The chunk where Alyssa first pulled the gun? Gone.”
My skin prickled. “That’s not possible. I backed them up.”
“Someone accessed your laptop,” Harper said. “Or your cloud. Or both.”
I stared at my coffee mug on the table, the dried ring it left like a bruise. “You’re saying someone is still cleaning up.”
“Yes,” Harper said. “And you need to assume they know where you live now.”
The words sank into me slowly, like a hook catching.
After I hung up, I checked my locks twice. Then I checked my windows. Then I sat at my tiny kitchen table with the subpoena in front of me and tried to breathe like a normal person.
At 2:17 a.m., my phone buzzed.
Unknown number: Don’t testify.
My chest tightened.
Another buzz.
Unknown number: You already gave the cops one book. Don’t make us look for the second.
My fingers went numb around the phone. Second book? I didn’t have a second—
I stood so fast my chair scraped. I crossed the apartment and yanked my door open.
The hallway was empty, lit by a flickering bulb that made everything look sickly. But on the floor, right outside my threshold, lay a small padded mailer.
No postage. No return address.
My name written in block letters.
I picked it up with shaking hands and carried it inside like it was radioactive. The mailer smelled faintly of cologne—sharp, expensive, out of place in my salty little life. I tore it open.
Inside was a single Polaroid photo.
It was me, crouched in my old side yard, looking into Bree’s bedroom window.
The timestamp in the corner read a date from months ago—my first night watching.
On the back, in neat handwriting, were four words:
Bring the book tonight.
My throat tightened as a sick realization crept in—if someone had photographed me that night, what else had they seen, and what “book” did they think I still had?
Part 8
I didn’t sleep. I sat in a chair with the Polaroid on the table like it could confess if I stared at it long enough.
The photo wasn’t taken from the street. The angle was too close, too low. Whoever took it had been in the side yard with me—or behind me—breathing the same cold air, watching my hands shake, watching my life split open.
That meant one thing I didn’t want to say out loud: this started before Kellan ever showed his face.
By eight a.m., I was at the police station, the lobby smelling like burnt coffee and wet wool. Detective Harper met me near the front desk, eyes tired, hair pulled back tight like she hadn’t had a real night of sleep in weeks.
“You got messages?” she asked.
I handed her my phone.
She scrolled, her jaw tightening. “Yeah,” she muttered. “This is them.”
“Them?” I echoed.
Before she could answer, a woman stepped out of an office down the hall. She wore a plain dark blazer, no badge visible, but her posture had that calm authority that made the air around her feel organized.
“Matthew Rourke?” she asked.
Harper nodded toward her. “This is Agent Chen. FBI financial crimes task force.”
Agent Chen shook my hand. Her grip was firm, dry, professional. Her eyes stayed on mine like she was filing me into a category.
“Mr. Rourke,” she said, “thank you for coming in quickly.”
“I didn’t have much choice,” I replied, and my voice sounded harsher than I meant.
Chen didn’t flinch. “No,” she agreed. “You don’t.”
She led us into a small conference room that smelled like cheap air freshener and old paper. A stack of files sat on the table. A laptop. A clear evidence bag with something inside I didn’t recognize at first.
Chen tapped the bag. “This was recovered from Alyssa Rourke’s apartment during the search,” she said.
Inside was a slim black notebook—same size as Bree’s ledger, but different cover. No plastic wrap. No label.
My stomach dropped. “That’s not mine.”
“We know,” Chen said. “But it’s related. It contains partial records of transfers—some overlapping with Bree’s ledger, some not.”
I swallowed. “So there are two ledgers.”
“Minimum,” Chen corrected gently. “In operations like this, there are always copies. Always backups.”
Harper leaned forward. “Tell him about the missing pages.”
Chen opened one of the folders and slid a photocopy toward me. It was a scan of Bree’s ledger, pages numbered in Bree’s handwriting.
The numbering jumped: 41… 42… then 49.
Seven pages missing.
I stared at the gap until my eyes hurt. “Those pages—what was on them?”
Chen’s expression stayed neutral. “We don’t know. But based on surrounding entries, those pages likely covered the period right before Bree’s accident. That window matters.”
My skin prickled. “You think the accident was connected.”
Chen didn’t say yes. She didn’t say no. She just said, “Patterns don’t usually start after a major event. They start before.”
Harper’s gaze flicked to me, almost apologetic.
Chen slid another paper across the table—an account application form. My name. My social security number. My address from the old house.
And my signature at the bottom.
It looked like mine. The curve of the M. The little tail on the R.
I felt bile rise.
“That’s not—” I started.
“I know,” Chen said. “But you need to understand what you’re facing. This document was used to open an account that moved significant funds. The defense will argue you were involved.”
“And I wasn’t,” I snapped, heat flaring. “I was wiping my wife’s mouth while my sister was drugging her.”
Chen’s eyes stayed steady. “Then help us prove that.”
I forced myself to breathe. Goal: clear my name. Conflict: the paper says otherwise.
“What do you need?” I asked, the words coming out like swallowing nails.
Chen nodded once, approving. “We need whatever they’re asking you to bring.”
“The ‘book,’” Harper murmured, glancing at the Polaroid I’d handed over.
“But I don’t have another book,” I said, frustration rising. “Unless—” My mind flashed to Bree’s work folder in my safe. The pages with Alyssa’s name circled. The initials K.M.
Chen leaned in slightly. “Bree had more than one set of records. Work records. Personal notes. A whistleblower packet. Anything that could bring down multiple people. If she hid something else, you’re the most likely person she hid it near.”
I shook my head slowly. “I sold the house.”
Harper’s brows knit. “When did you close?”
“A few weeks ago,” I said. “But the new owners haven’t moved in yet. Renovations.”
Chen’s gaze sharpened. “Then the property may still hold evidence. And someone else may be trying to retrieve it before we do.”
My chest tightened as the threat clicked into place. Those messages weren’t just intimidation. They were instructions. A test. They thought I had something. They were trying to pull it out of hiding by scaring me into handing it over.
Chen pushed a card toward me. “Call me if anything else happens. And Mr. Rourke—don’t go back there alone.”
I almost laughed, sharp and humorless. “Seems like I’m not allowed to do anything alone anymore.”
Harper walked me out. The hallway smelled like disinfectant and wet boots. At the front door, she stopped me with a hand on my arm.
“Matt,” she said quietly, “if this turns out to be bigger than Kellan—if there are more people… promise me you won’t try to play hero.”
I looked at her hand, then up at her face. “I’m not a hero,” I said. “I’m just tired of being someone’s tool.”
Back at my apartment, the bait shop downstairs was open. A bell jingled every time someone came in, and the scent of cut bait drifted up through the floorboards like a warning.
I checked my mailbox out of habit, even though the Polaroid hadn’t been mailed.
Inside was a small brass key taped to a plain white envelope.
No stamp. No address.
Just four words, printed from a label maker:
UNIT 12. DON’T WAIT.
My throat tightened as my hand closed around the cold metal.
If they wanted me at Unit 12, did that mean the “book” was already there—and if so, what would I find first: the truth that clears me, or a trap that buries me?
Part3: Despite my wife’s six-year coma, I saw that she was getting dressed every night. I felt that something wasn’t quite right, so I pretended to be traveling for work. At night, I returned stealthily and looked through the bedroom window. I was taken aback.
