She wiped beneath her sunglasses.
“There’s a storage office in an old billing company downtown. He kept duplicate calendars there. Not the official ones. The real ones. Meetings, initials, pickup windows, payments. If he hasn’t moved them, they’re in a gray file cabinet behind a fake wall panel.”
My pulse changed.
“Why tell me?”
“Because on Friday, Warren asked me whether I had ever mentioned Ava’s name to police.”
Her voice dropped.
“He smiled when he asked.”
I felt the garden, the people, the spring air all pull away from me.
Elena looked straight at me through those dark lenses.
“I think your daughter isn’t the only loose end he plans to erase.”
### Part 7
I called Detective Reyes from the sidewalk outside the garden.
She did not sound surprised when I said Elena’s name.
That told me enough.
“Do not go to that storage office,” Reyes said.
“I’m sending you the address.”
“Good. Send it. Then stay away.”
“She might run.”
“We’ll move fast.”
“I know what ‘move fast’ means in law enforcement.”
“And I know what freelance reporters do when they think they’re the only ones with urgency.”
A bus hissed at the curb. People stepped around me, carrying groceries, coffee, lives untouched by Warren Bellamy.
“My daughter was almost killed because everyone moved carefully,” I said.
Reyes went quiet.
Then she said, “Your daughter is alive because Sheriff Harker moved carefully. Remember that before you mistake restraint for weakness.”
I hated that she was right.
Again.
But I also knew institutions. Warrants took time. Supervisors asked questions. Federal agencies protected cases like jealous dragons. Evidence could vanish while good people filled out forms.
So I did something halfway between obedience and stupidity.
I called Marcus.
He answered on the second ring. “I can hear bad judgment in your breathing.”
“I need eyes on a downtown storage office. No entry. Just tell me if anyone goes in.”
“That’s still bad judgment.”
“But not illegal.”
“Barely.”
An hour later, Marcus parked across from the old billing company on West Armitage, a narrow brick building wedged between a print shop and a nail salon. The company name had been scraped off the glass, leaving ghost letters behind.
At 7:12 p.m., Marcus texted.
Black SUV arrived. Two men. One is Dean Larch.
My fingers went cold.
Another text.
They have boxes.
I called Reyes again.
“They’re moving evidence.”
“We’re two minutes out,” she said.
Two minutes.
The longest unit of time in the world, after twenty.
I was already in my car.
I do not remember deciding to drive there. I remember the city lights smearing across my windshield. I remember my breath sounding too loud. I remember thinking that Ava was at Mason’s again, safe, eating grilled cheese, unaware that her father was chasing ghosts through Chicago traffic.
By the time I reached the block, police vehicles had sealed both ends.
No sirens.
No chaos.
Just controlled motion.
I parked badly and got out.
Reyes saw me immediately.
Her face could have cut glass.
“I told you to stay away.”
“I did. From the building.”
She pointed toward my car. “Stand there. Do not move.”
I stood there.
Mostly.
Officers brought Dean Larch out first. His green watch flashed under the streetlight. He looked bored until he saw me. Then recognition flickered across his face.
The second man came out carrying nothing, hands cuffed behind him.
Then an evidence tech emerged with a gray metal file box.
Reyes looked at it.
Then at me.
Her anger did not disappear, but something else joined it.
Later, at the station, she allowed me one cup of terrible coffee and exactly seven minutes of information.
The storage office had contained duplicate calendars, payment ledgers, private correspondence, and a folder labeled with my last name.
Price.
I stared at her.
“What was in it?”
“We’re still processing.”
“What was in it?”
She exhaled through her nose.
“Custody records. Your old articles. Photos of your apartment. Your daughter’s school schedule. Notes about your routines.”
The room got smaller.
“Why?”
“We think Warren’s original plan included making you look connected to Ava’s disappearance.”
I laughed.
It came out wrong.
“Connected how?”
“Unstable father. Financial stress. History covering violent crime. Possible obsession with former wife. They had a narrative ready.”
A narrative.
That was my language.
My weapon.
Warren had planned not only to take Ava from me, but to turn me into the monster afterward.
“What about Claire?”
Reyes hesitated.
“What?”
“There are notes in her handwriting.”
My chest tightened so sharply I had to look away.
“Of course there are.”
“One more thing,” Reyes said. “Elena is coming in tonight. She wants immunity consideration.”
“She deserves prison.”
“Maybe. But her testimony may put Warren away for the rest of his life.”
I thought of Elena in the garden saying Ava looked at her like she could help.
“Then use her.”
Reyes studied me.
“You were a reporter. You know this part. Cases are built with imperfect people.”
“Yes,” I said. “And families are destroyed by them.”
When I got home after midnight, Ava was asleep on the couch under Mason’s old college blanket. Talia had left a plate of food for me in the microwave.
I carried Ava to bed.
Halfway down the hall, she stirred.
“Daddy?”
“I’m here.”
“Did Mommy call?”