Chapter 15 - The House in Marblehead
Hayes told me to stay in the car.
This time, I listened.
The old Whitaker house sat above the water in Marblehead, its weathered shingles silver beneath a low afternoon sky. My father had spent his last summers there, claiming he liked the quiet.
Two police vehicles stood near the drive.
The front door was open.
I could see one overturned chair inside.
Celia sat beside me, calling hospitals while Hayes spoke with a local officer on the porch.
No one had found Walter.
There was blood on the kitchen floor.
Not much, Hayes said when he returned.
I hated him a little for thinking the quantity could comfort me.
“His car is here,” he continued. “His phone is on the counter.”
“What about the message?”
“We’re preserving it.”
“Someone took him.”
“That’s one possibility.”
“Hayes.”
He held my gaze.
“Yes. It’s a serious one.”
A local detective approached carrying a paper evidence bag.
Inside was a hearing aid.
Walter had worn two.
I looked toward the water.
The house had a private path leading to a narrow public lane. A person could leave without passing the driveway cameras.
My father had considered that privacy an advantage.
Now I saw how many things wealth taught people to confuse with safety.
Emily called.
I stepped away from the vehicles before answering.
“Is Walter all right?”
“We haven’t found him.”
She was quiet.
Then she said, “Zion is with Owen and Mrs. Gable. I’m at the office.”
“You should be at the house.”
“I am not sitting in a nursery while someone uses my daughter’s death to frighten families.”
I closed my eyes.
“Emily—”
“I’m with the attorneys. We’re preserving records. I’m not confronting anyone.”
I let out the breath I had been holding.
“What have you found?”
“A former hospital billing supervisor agreed to talk.”
“Who?”
“Nora Ellis. She worked at Lily’s hospital.”
“Does Hayes know?”
“I called his office first.”
I almost smiled despite everything.
“You’re getting better at handling me.”
“No. You’re getting better at listening.”
Behind me, a uniformed officer called my name.
I turned.
A woman in a raincoat stood near the gate, holding the leash of an elderly terrier.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know whether this mattered.”
Hayes approached.
“What did you see?”
“A medical transport van. About an hour ago.”
“Company name?”
“Harbor something. Blue letters.”
My stomach tightened.
Whitaker serviced accounts for three regional medical transport providers.
“Was anyone inside it?” Hayes asked.
“An older gentleman. They were helping him down the steps.”
Walter.
The woman frowned.
“He looked upset. But the man said his blood sugar had dropped. I thought they were taking him to a hospital.”
“Did you get the plate?”
“No.”
Then she hesitated.
“My doorbell might have.”
Within minutes, an officer accompanied her home.
Hayes turned to me.
“We have something to work with.”
For the first time that afternoon, I could breathe.
A shout came from inside the house.
One of the investigators had found a locked drawer beneath my father’s study desk.
Celia produced authorization for an emergency locksmith.
Inside were tax records, old photographs, and a small brass key attached to a blue plastic tag.
No ledger.
Just the key.
On the tag, my father had written a number.
417.
Celia recognized it immediately.
“Your father’s old bank.”
The key opened a safe-deposit box.
Walter had not come for the evidence.
He had come for the way to reach it.
My phone rang again.
Emily.
This time, her voice had lost its steadiness.
“Nora just sent me a photograph.”
“What photograph?”
“A payment authorization from the week Lily died.”
May you like
I waited.
“Marcus, your father’s signature is on it.”
