Chapter 5 - The Voice That Wasn't Leah

Arthur did not deny knowing Jerome Vale.

He denied the conclusion Claire drew from the photograph.

"I held a car door for him," he said.

They were back at the Portland hotel, this time in a small conference room Molly had insisted they rent because it had two exits and no family history.

Claire placed the printed photograph on the table.

"You were standing beside the car that followed my mother the night she died."

"Months later."

"Same car."

"According to a man who hid evidence for nine years."

Lucas had refused to come with them.

He had, however, signed a written statement and allowed Molly to photograph the old phone.

Molly folded her arms.

"The metadata on his image is consistent with an old device and the date he claims. It isn't conclusive, but it's better than your current defense, which seems to be that opening doors is common."

Arthur looked at Claire.

"Jerome Vale was the foundation's compliance officer. I met with him dozens of times."

"Did you know he threatened Lucas?"

"No."

"Did you know he was at the crash?"

"No."

"Did you know he had a black sedan?"

"I knew he owned several cars."

Claire leaned forward.

"Why did my mother say not to trust J?"

Arthur's face tightened.

"I don't know."

"Julian? Jerome?"

"Or someone else."

"How many J's were in my mother's life?"

"Enough to make a dying initial unhelpful."

Molly glanced at Claire.

"He's right about that."

Claire hated that he was.

Arthur took a breath.

"Open the envelope Thomas addressed to me."

Claire stared at him.

"Why?"

"Because if he thought I was involved, he may have said so."

She had brought the blue box from the room upstairs.

She opened Arthur's envelope.

The note inside was only two pages.

Arthur,

You were right to distrust me and wrong to stop when distrust became inconvenient.

Eleanor's death was not an accident. I cannot prove who caused it, but I can prove the official version was manufactured.

Jerome altered foundation security records. Celeste destroyed donor files. Julian concealed a meeting. You concealed Leah.

Every one of us believed our private secret was separate from the others.

That belief is why the larger crime survived.

Arthur read over Claire's shoulder.

"He named all of us."

Claire continued.

If Claire reaches you, tell her what you never told police: who visited your office two days after Eleanor died and demanded the Harbor Light trust documents.

Claire looked up.

Arthur's skin had gone pale.

"Who?"

He did not answer.

"Arthur."

"Julian."

The room fell silent.

"Julian came to your office?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because he said Thomas had sent him."

"Had Dad?"

"Thomas denied it later."

"What did Julian want?"

"The trust documents. Your mother's sealed instructions. He specifically asked whether Eleanor had created any provisions for Leah."

Molly sat slowly.

"That's not great."

Arthur looked miserable.

"I refused."

"Did he threaten you?"

"No. That's why I remember it. Julian never threatened. He persuaded. He spoke about protecting Thomas from scandal, protecting you girls from uncertainty, protecting the foundation from panic."

Claire heard her mother's recorded voice.

The worst thing about fear was how quickly it made strangers out of family.

Julian had quoted that line at the hotel door.

Was it something Eleanor often said?

Or something only a person present during private conversations would know?

Claire's phone rang.

Unknown number.

Everyone looked at it.

Molly said, "Don't answer on speaker immediately."

Claire answered anyway.

"Hello?"

A woman's breathing.

Then:

"Claire?"

Claire's body forgot how to move.

The voice was older.

But it was Leah.

"Claire, please don't hang up."

Claire's eyes filled instantly.

"Leah?"

Arthur closed his eyes.

Molly moved closer to the phone.

"I don't have long," the voice said. "They're monitoring everything. You need to leave Arthur. Now."

Claire looked at him.

"Where are you?"

"Safe for the moment."

"Tell me something only you know."

A soft laugh.

"When you were twelve, you stole Mom's green earrings and blamed me. I found one under your mattress and made you wash my bike for a month."

Claire's knees weakened.

No newspaper had that story.

No police report.

"Leah."

"Listen. The account is mine, but I didn't send every message. Someone got access after the first video. That's why I warned you not to trust me."

Claire stared at Molly.

"How do I know this call is really you?"

"You don't. Not yet."

The answer sounded exactly like Leah.

"Where can I see you?"

"There is a motel outside Brunswick called North Pine. Room fourteen. Come at midnight. Alone."

Molly shook her head violently.

Claire said, "No."

A pause.

"Claire, please."

"If you're Leah, tell me the phrase."

Silence.

Claire had not planned the question.

She barely knew what phrase she meant until the memory arrived.

When they were children, Leah had invented a rule for secret clubs: every important meeting required a nonsense password.

The last one they had used before their mother's death had been absurd enough that Claire still remembered it.

"What phrase?" the woman asked.

Claire's heart sank.

"Goodbye."

"Wait—"

Claire hung up.

Molly exhaled.

Arthur asked, "What phrase?"

"Blue birds don't migrate backward."

Molly blinked.

"That's terrible."

"Leah was eleven."

"Still terrible."

Claire's hands were shaking.

"It knew about the earrings."

Arthur frowned.

"Who else knew?"

"Leah and me. Maybe Mom."

Molly opened her laptop.

"Or it isn't about knowledge anymore. It might be about recordings."

"What?"

"You've both been interviewed over the years, right? Leah before she vanished? School videos? Family recordings?"

Claire nodded slowly.

"The foundation made a documentary when we were teenagers."

"How much footage?"

"Hours."

Molly's expression hardened.

"Then someone could build a convincing synthetic voice if they had enough clean audio."

Arthur looked skeptical.

"And invent childhood memories?"

"Not from audio alone. But from journals, emails, family archives, old messages."

Claire thought of Rowan House.

The preserved trust.

Her father's files.

The foundation's enormous media archive.

"Who controls the foundation archive now?"

Arthur and Claire answered at the same time.

"Julian."

Molly closed the laptop.

"We are not going to that motel."

Claire looked at the clock.

9:16 p.m.

"We are."

Molly stared.

"I just said—"

"We're not going alone. And we're not going to room fourteen. We're going to watch who does."

At eleven forty-five, Claire and Molly parked across the road from North Pine Motel.

Arthur stayed at the hotel with instructions to call police if Claire missed a check-in.

Molly had already sent Lucas Fenner their location.

"Why Lucas?" Claire asked.

"Because he has a tow truck, a guilty conscience, and no obvious reason to lure us here. That's currently top-tier trustworthiness."

Room fourteen remained dark.

At 11:58, a black SUV entered the lot.

A man got out.

Not Julian.

Not Arthur.

He wore a baseball cap and carried a small hard case.

He unlocked room fourteen with a key card.

Molly photographed the plate.

"Rental."

"Can you see his face?"

"Not yet."

Ten minutes passed.

Then a second vehicle arrived.

A white sedan.

A woman stepped out.

Claire grabbed Molly's arm.

From behind, the woman had Leah's height, Leah's dark hair, Leah's walk.

Claire opened the car door.

Molly yanked her back.

"No."

"That's her."

"You cannot know that from a parking lot."

The woman entered room fourteen.

Three minutes later, the lights came on.

Through a gap in the curtain, Claire saw a chair, a camera tripod, and bright panel lights.

Molly whispered, "They're setting a scene."

The woman moved past the window.

Claire saw her face.

Not Leah.

Close enough to hurt.

Similar bone structure. Dark wig. Makeup changing the shape of her eyes.

The man positioned a microphone in front of her.

Claire's phone buzzed.

A message from the anonymous number.

WHERE ARE YOU?

Then another.

I'M WAITING.

Claire typed with shaking hands.

BLUE BIRDS DON'T MIGRATE BACKWARD.

The typing indicator appeared.

Stopped.

Appeared again.

No answer came.

Inside room fourteen, the man abruptly looked at his phone.

Then toward the window.

"He knows we're here," Molly said.

The motel room lights went out.

The man and woman exited through the back.

Claire and Molly ran around the building but found only an open service gate and tire marks in wet gravel.

Inside room fourteen, they found the hard case abandoned on the bed.

Molly opened it.

Audio equipment.

A laptop.

A folder labeled CLAIRE ROWAN RESPONSE TREE.

Claire opened the folder.

It contained printed pages of predicted questions and answers.

If Claire asks about the earrings, answer with green earrings / bike punishment.

If Claire asks about Thomas, say he tried to help but was too late.

If Claire asks for proof of identity, redirect to childhood memory bank.

At the bottom of the page, one line was highlighted.

If Claire uses phrase BLUE BIRDS DON'T MIGRATE BACKWARD, terminate contact immediately. Phrase compromised only by L.R.

Claire read it twice.

"L.R.," Molly whispered.

Claire looked at her.

"Leah Rowan."

On the laptop desktop was a single open file.

A text document.

Molly scrolled to the top.

PROJECT MIRROR.

Client: J.M.

Claire felt the room narrow around her.

"Julian Mercer."

Molly shook her head.

"Maybe. But we don't assume initials anymore."

Claire stared at the screen.

May you like

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At the very bottom of the document, beneath technical notes, someone had typed a sentence in all caps.

THE REAL LEAH WILL CONTACT CLAIRE ONLY AFTER SHE OPENS THE NAMELESS ENVELOPE.