I drove to the grocery store and found her car abandoned behind the building. The driver’s door was unlocked. Her purse lay beneath the passenger seat, but both phones were gone.
There was no blood, no broken glass, no obvious sign of a struggle.
I called the police.
They treated her as a missing adult who might have left voluntarily. I did not mention her records or Gavin’s business. Information released too early becomes noise, and noise gives guilty people room to hide.
Walter arrived twenty minutes later.
He walked the edge of the parking lot, studying tire marks and security cameras.
“She left the car herself,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“Seat is pushed back. She’s shorter than you. Whoever drove last had longer legs.”
“Gavin?”
“Possibly.”
A grocery-store camera showed Rebecca exiting her vehicle at 5:41. A dark SUV pulled beside her. She spoke to the driver for nine seconds, then entered the passenger seat willingly.
The image was too poor to identify the driver.
At 6:13 the next morning, I received a message from an unknown number.
I’m safe. Don’t contact me. Forget everything.
Rebecca would not have written “forget everything.”
A frightened person says stop, leave me alone, or he’ll hurt me. “Forget everything” sounded like a line dictated by someone who viewed information as the threat.
I forwarded the message to Simone Caldwell.
She contacted a federal investigator she trusted. Financial crimes alone might have remained local. Potential coercion, missing evidence, and a connection to Laura’s death moved the matter beyond Gavin’s usual reach.
Still, we needed Rebecca alive and willing to speak.
I returned home to find Patricia’s car in my driveway.
She stood on the porch holding a casserole dish wrapped in foil. It was the same chicken-and-rice recipe she brought after Laura’s funeral.
Emma was at school.
I did not invite Patricia inside.
“I thought we should talk,” she said.
“About Gavin?”
“About family.”
“They stopped being the same subject years ago.”
Her mouth tightened. “Gavin says you’re harassing one of his employees.”
“Rebecca Sloan is missing.”
Patricia blinked too slowly.
“You knew.”
“I know she quit.”
“Who told you that?”
“Gavin.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“Her car was found last night. Police haven’t classified her as missing publicly. Gavin shouldn’t know she’s gone.”
Patricia looked toward the street.
Her fingers tightened around the dish.
“You need to leave him alone, Daniel.”
“Did Laura ask you for help?”
Her face collapsed for half a second.
I stepped closer.
“Before she died, did Laura tell you what Gavin was doing?”
Patricia whispered, “She was emotional.”
“Did she ask you for help?”
“She wanted to destroy her brother over business decisions she didn’t understand.”
“She understood them well enough to hide his ledger.”
The casserole slipped slightly in Patricia’s hands.
There.
Recognition.
“Where is it?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You knew about the storage unit.”
“No.”
“Marcus removed its contents using a letter from the family. You were executor of Laura’s estate for the first thirty days.”
Tears gathered in her eyes.
“I only signed what Gavin gave me.”
“You helped him take evidence Laura left for me.”
“I was grieving.”
“So was I. I didn’t rob my dead wife’s storage unit.”
She flinched.
I felt no satisfaction.
Patricia had spent her life translating Gavin’s cruelty into misunderstandings. She called threats stress, lies confusion, and violence a loss of temper. Her excuses were the mortar holding his life together.
“Did Gavin cause Laura’s accident?” I asked.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
“Did he meet her that night?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she confront him?”
Patricia’s silence answered.
I opened the front door and placed the casserole inside, not because I wanted it but because her hands were shaking badly enough to drop it.
“Tell Gavin something for me,” I said. “I found the key.”
Her face went pale.
I had not found the ledger, but Gavin did not need to know that.
Patricia hurried toward her car.
Before she reached it, a police vehicle turned onto my street.
An officer stepped out and asked whether I was Daniel Mercer.
“Yes.”
He held up a folded document.
“Mr. Mercer, we have a warrant to search your home regarding the disappearance of Rebecca Sloan.”
