Chapter 3 - Locker 214We reached the station just after dawn.
Snow covered the parking lot.
Police lights painted the white ground blue.
Harris met us near the service entrance.
“Locker 214 is still locked.”
“Who owns it?”
“That's the problem.”
He handed me a paper.
“No registered name.”
“Anonymous rental?”
“Paid in cash.”
“Security footage?”
Harris shook his head.
“Twenty-seven cameras. Twelve are working.”
“Convenient.”
“Very.”
We entered the locker corridor.
214 sat at the very end.
Small.
Black.
Ordinary.
Emily stood behind me.
“I don't want to see what's inside.”
“You don't have to.”
I inserted the key.
It clicked.
Inside was a red handbag.
Emily gasped.
“That's Lauren's.”
I reached for gloves.
“Stay back.”
Inside the bag we found a phone.
A driver's license.
A passport.
Three hundred dollars in cash.
A folded receipt.
And a photograph.
The photograph showed four women standing together at a restaurant.
Lauren was on the left.
Emily was on the right.
Two other women stood in the middle.
One was unfamiliar.
The other wasn't.
My stomach tightened.
I recognized her.
She was the daughter of Judge Peter Alden.
A powerful criminal court judge.
The same judge who had appeared in photographs with Daniel Mercer at charity events.
I turned the photograph over.
There was writing on the back.
WE WERE NEVER SUPPOSED TO FIND THE FOURTH.
“What does that mean?” Harris asked.
“I don't know.”
Emily whispered.
“I do.”
We looked at her.
She pointed at the woman none of us recognized.
“That was the fourth.”
“What fourth?”
“The woman in the photographs.”
I felt cold despite the heating.
“The ones from the hidden room?”
Emily nodded.
“She wasn't a victim.”
She touched the photograph.
“She was helping him.”
Harris stared.
“Who?”
Emily looked at the unknown woman.
“I don't know her name.”
Then she went pale.
“But I've seen her.”
“Where?”
“At Daniel's house.”
“When?”
“Last month.”
“Doing what?”
Emily swallowed.
“Washing blood out of a man's shirt.”
Harris exchanged a look with me.
We searched the handbag again.
The folded receipt came from a hotel.
The Bellmore.
Room 614.
Timestamped three days before Lauren disappeared.
Harris called the hotel.
They confirmed the room existed.
But the reservation name had been deleted.
That didn't happen by accident.
We drove there.
The Bellmore was an old brick hotel downtown, expensive enough for politicians and anonymous enough for affairs.
At reception, Harris showed his badge.
“We need guest records for room 614.”
The manager hesitated.
Then he looked at the photograph of Lauren.
His face changed.
“I remember her.”
“When?”
“About nine months ago.”
“Did she check out?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
The manager nodded.
Then stopped.
“Well.”
“Well what?”
“She left with a man.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Mid-forties. Dark coat. Scar above his eyebrow.”
Emily made a noise.
I looked at her.
“What?”
“I know that scar.”
“How?”
“Daniel has a driver.”
“What does he look like?”
“Exactly that.”
Harris's jaw tightened.
“Name?”
“Caleb Rourke.”
The manager went pale.
“Is something wrong?”
“You know him?”
“I've seen him here.”
“How often?”
The manager hesitated.
“Too often.”
I asked for the room key logs.
The manager tried to refuse.
Harris leaned closer.
“You'll either give them to me now, or I'll obtain a warrant and take your entire server.”
The logs appeared.
Room 614 had been accessed 19 times during the week Lauren disappeared.
Every entry had been erased except one.
2:14 a.m.
The final entry.
The user ID was not Lauren.
It was:
D. MERCER.
Emily covered her mouth.
Harris stared at me.
“We just connected Daniel to the hotel.”
I nodded.
But another thought had already surfaced.
“Why would Lauren leave evidence behind?”
Harris looked at me.
“What are you thinking?”
“She wanted someone to find it.”
“Then why hide it?”
“She didn't.”
I pointed to the timestamp.
“Someone hid it after she disappeared.”
We checked the hallway camera.
The footage was damaged.
But not completely.
At 2:19 a.m., a man emerged from room 614.
He carried a black duffel bag.
Behind him walked a woman.
Long dark hair.
White coat.
The unknown woman from the photograph.
She looked directly at the camera.
Then she raised one finger to her lips.
As if telling whoever watched the footage:
Be quiet.
The screen went black.
Harris whispered.
“Who is she?”
I stared at the frozen image.
Then my phone rang.
It was my mother.
I answered.
“Mara?”
Her voice was shaking.
“Come home.”
“Why?”
“There is a man in your driveway.”
I closed my eyes.
“Mom, I don't live with you.”
“I know.”
A pause.
“But he left something on your sister's old bedroom window.”
“What?”
“Come quickly.”
“What did he leave?”
My mother started crying.
“A photograph.”
“Of what?”
“The four of you.”
I froze.
“The four of us?”
My mother whispered:
May you like
“No.”
“The four sisters.”
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