Chapter 14 - The First Child on the List
Emily Carter would have been nine years old.
Her mother still lived in Boise.
Her father had died two years earlier without learning what happened to his daughter.
The bracelet from the warehouse became the first physical evidence suggesting Emily had survived at least several days after her disappearance.
That changed everything.
By morning, federal agencies reopened seven missing-child investigations connected geographically or historically to locations in Gregory Vance’s records.
News outlets knew nothing.
That was intentional.
If Katherine Vale really possessed a ledger identifying children, safe houses, or participants, publicity could send everyone involved running.
For forty-eight hours, nothing happened.
Then Morales received an email.
No sender information.
No text.
One attachment.
A photograph of a motel room.
In the center of the image sat a newspaper dated that morning.
Beside it was a handwritten note.
ROOM 214.
MIDNIGHT.
ONE OFFICER.
Morales looked at me.
“You’re not going.”
“Why send it to you if they don’t want police?”
“They want one officer.”
“Then I’m going.”
“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t.”
Agent Reeves agreed.
“It’s a trap.”
“Maybe.”
“Jack.”
I pointed toward the photograph.
“Someone has been trying to guide us since the envelope appeared. They gave us Katherine’s initials. They gave us the warehouse. Why?”
“Could be manipulation.”
“Then we find out.”
No federal agency was going to allow me to walk alone into an unknown motel room.
So we compromised.
I entered alone.
Twenty officers watched from surrounding rooms and vehicles.
The motel sat outside Salem, near Interstate 5.
Room 214 smelled like cheap detergent and cigarettes.
The door was unlocked.
Inside, nobody waited.
On the bed sat an old laptop.
Next to it was a photograph of a teenage girl.
She had dark hair, gray eyes, and a small scar near her eyebrow.
A note beneath the picture read:
MY NAME WAS EMILY CARTER.
I stared at it.
Impossible.
The photograph showed someone around fourteen.
Emily would only be nine.
Then I noticed the date printed at the bottom.
The picture had been taken that week.
The girl wasn’t Emily.
She was someone else using Emily’s identity.
The laptop powered on automatically.
A video began playing.
A woman appeared on screen.
Late thirties.
Baseball cap.
Dark jacket.
Face partially shadowed.
“My name is Rebecca Sloan.”
She paused.
“I worked for Katherine Vale.”
Every officer listening through my hidden radio went silent.
Rebecca continued.
“I wasn’t part of the kidnappings. Not at first. I created documents. Birth certificates. school enrollment records. medical histories. I told myself I was helping women escape abusive husbands.”
Her eyes filled with shame.
“Then I learned some children weren’t being protected. They were being reassigned.”
Reassigned.
The word made my skin crawl.
“Katherine kept a master ledger. Real names. New names. Locations. Payments.”
The woman looked off-camera.
“If you’re watching this, I’m probably already moving.”
I stepped closer to the laptop.
Rebecca held up the photograph of the teenage girl.
“This is not Emily Carter. Her name is Jenna Wells. She was taken from Nevada when she was six. She was given Emily’s documents after Emily died.”
My stomach tightened.
Emily was dead.
But Jenna might still be alive.
Rebecca continued.
“Jenna escaped eight months ago. She found me because I made her papers. She wants to testify.”
The video cut briefly.
Then Rebecca returned.
“Katherine has agreed to trade the ledger for protection.”
Morales’s voice whispered in my earpiece.
“This is getting worse.”
Rebecca looked directly into the camera.
“She doesn’t trust the FBI. She doesn’t trust local police. Someone inside law enforcement has been protecting the network.”
I stood completely still.
“She trusts one person.”
A photograph appeared on screen.
Me.
Standing beside Liam outside Evergreen Elementary.
“She trusts Officer Jack Dunham because Liam trusted him.”
The video ended.
The motel room went silent.
Then the bathroom door clicked.
I reached for my weapon.
“Police! Show me your hands!”
A teenage girl stepped out.
Dark hair.
Gray eyes.
Scar near her eyebrow.
Exactly like the photograph.
Her hands were raised.
“My name is Jenna Wells.”
May you like
Her voice trembled.
“And if you want to find Katherine, you have to get me out of here before the police officer watching this motel realizes I’m alive.”
