Inside was a black flash drive.
Daniel let out a breath.
“Smart.”
“She knew I kept everything she gave me.”
“Do you have a computer that isn’t connected to the internet?”
“No.”
“I brought one.”
From his car, he retrieved an old laptop sealed in an evidence bag. He did not explain why he carried it.
We sat at my kitchen table.
The drive contained seven folders.
MOM. TRUST. PAYMENTS. SHERIFF. CLAIRE. BEN. LAST.
Daniel opened MOM.
There were photographs of handwritten diary pages, copies of medical records, and a grainy video file dated seventeen years earlier.
My pulse thundered.
“Play it.”
Daniel hesitated.
“Play it.”
The footage came from a security camera outside Hale Medical’s old manufacturing facility. The timestamp showed 10:48 p.m. on the night my mother disappeared.
Her car entered the parking lot.
My father’s truck followed three minutes later.
At 11:31, the truck left.
My mother’s car remained.
At 12:07, a different vehicle entered—a sheriff’s cruiser.
Two men stepped out.
One was my father.
The other wore a deputy’s uniform.
Together, they carried something wrapped in a gray tarp from the building and placed it in my mother’s trunk.
My breath stopped.
Daniel froze the image.
“Do you recognize the deputy?”
The man’s face was turned away.
“No.”
Daniel enlarged the frame.
The badge number blurred, but a distinctive patch showed on the sleeve.
Daniel whispered a curse.
“What?”
“That uniform predates the department merger.”
“So?”
“Only twelve deputies were issued that patch.”
“Can you find out who?”
“Yes.”
We watched the rest.
My mother’s car left the facility.
The cruiser followed.
At 2:16 a.m., my father returned alone in the cruiser, changed into his truck, and drove away.
I clutched the edge of the table.
“He put her in the car.”
“It appears that way.”
“And drove her to the ravine.”
“Claire—”
“He killed her.”
