Chapter 13 - THE SEVENTH TABLE
Adrian wanted me to stay home.
I told him marriage hadn't made his bad ideas legally binding.
He didn't laugh.
That worried me.
We went to the former Blackthorn House at noon.
The new owners knew Adrian.
Everyone over forty in that building seemed to.
They gave us access to archived renovation plans.
The restaurant had changed dramatically.
Table nine was gone.
The stone column I'd hidden behind remained.
I touched it.
For a second, I was twenty-seven again.
Gunshots.
Glass.
Vanessa's purse.
Owen's photograph.
Adrian stood beside me.
“You okay?”
“No.”
He waited.
I appreciated that.
Then I said:
“But keep going.”
We found the original camera map.
Six cameras.
I remembered six.
Entrance.
Bar.
Kitchen hall.
Dining room.
Private corridor.
Loading entrance.
Then the renovation manager frowned.
“This is odd.”
“What?”
“There was a seventh line.”
I leaned closer.
A cable had run from the ceiling above the private dining room into a storage closet.
No camera appeared on official plans.
“Where did it record?”
He shrugged.
“The system was removed before we took ownership.”
Adrian looked at me.
“Someone had their own camera.”
“Yes.”
A camera Vanessa hadn't known about.
A camera Adrian hadn't controlled.
A camera positioned perfectly to photograph table nine.
We opened the old storage closet.
Empty.
Almost.
On the back wall, beneath new paint, I saw four screw holes.
Rectangle.
Recorder mount.
I photographed them.
Then my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A text.
STOP AUDITING DEAD PEOPLE.
Attached was a photograph.
Rachel Shaw.
Alive.
Sitting in a chair.
Today's newspaper beside her.
I showed Adrian.
His face hardened.
Another message arrived.
NO POLICE.
I typed:
WHAT DO YOU WANT?
The answer came immediately.
THE BOX.
Lucy had brought us Rachel's records.
I typed:
PROOF SHE'S ALIVE.
A video arrived.
Rachel looked exhausted.
But alive.
She stared into the camera.
“Mara, don't give them anything.”
Someone struck the camera away.
Video ended.
Adrian said:
“We trace it.”
“They'll expect that.”
“We still trace it.”
I called federal investigators.
Not because I trusted every system.
Because I had learned something from my father.
Trying to protect people alone often becomes another form of arrogance.
Within twenty minutes, specialists were working on the message.
No immediate location.
But metadata suggested the video had passed through several servers.
Professional.
Adrian studied the photograph.
Then enlarged the newspaper.
“What?”
“Reflection.”
I looked.
A metal surface behind Rachel reflected part of a sign.
Three letters.
...ERA.
Could be anything.
Then I noticed the chair.
Institutional.
Blue vinyl.
Bolted arms.
Something about it bothered me.
I'd seen one before.
Not personally.
In Northbridge documents.
I opened Rachel's box.
Found a facility photograph.
A pediatric rehabilitation center closed eighteen months earlier.
VERA CHILDREN'S RECOVERY CENTER.
I looked at Adrian.
“We found her.”
We hadn't.
Not exactly.
Because when authorities reached Vera Center forty minutes later, Rachel was gone.
The chair remained.
The newspaper remained.
And written on the wall behind it were four words:
MARA BENNETT WAS RIGHT.
Not Mara Cross.
Bennett.
My name before Adrian.
My name at Blackthorn.
Whoever this was didn't care about the woman I'd become.
May you like
They wanted the waitress back.
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