CHAPTER 5 The Key Card
The room fell silent.
I stared at Detective Brooks, waiting for her to tell me she wasn't sure.
She didn't.
"Our audio lab compared the sound against dozens of electronic access systems," she said. "Apartment complexes. Hotels. Office buildings."
"And?"
"They all sounded different."
She slid a folder across the table.
"This one matched almost perfectly."
I looked down.
Stamped across the front was the logo of my university.
"The electronic key cards issued to housing staff."
A cold wave rolled through my chest.
"So the person in my apartment..."
"Almost certainly had access to a university master key."
I tried to think logically.
Forty-three employees had access to housing records.
Not all of them carried master keys.
Some worked in offices.
Some handled paperwork.
Some never entered student apartments.
Detective Brooks flipped open another page.
"We narrowed the list."
My eyes scanned the names.
Forty-three became twelve.
Twelve became five.
Five people who could both access housing records and unlock apartments.
Five strangers.
Or...
One stranger and someone connected to my family.
Officer Daniel joined us a few minutes later.
He looked exhausted.
"I checked personnel files."
"Anything?"
He nodded.
"One employee started six months ago."
"So?"
"He used to live in Columbus."
My hometown.
My stomach tightened.
"That's a coincidence."
"Maybe," Daniel admitted.
"But his previous address is only fifteen minutes from your mother's neighborhood."
The coincidence suddenly felt much heavier.
His name was Richard Hale.
Age forty-nine.
Maintenance supervisor.
Clean employment record.
No criminal history.
Divorced.
Two grown children.
Nothing remarkable.
Detective Brooks tapped the file.
"On paper, he's boring."
"People who stalk students usually aren't."
They interviewed Richard the next morning.
He cooperated immediately.
Answered every question.
Provided his work schedule.
Even surrendered his key card without complaint.
Brooks later summarized the meeting.
"If he's acting..."
"He's very good."
"So you think he's innocent?"
"I think he wants us to think he is."
Not exactly reassuring.
That afternoon I attended class for the first time in nearly a week.
Everyone acted normal.
Students rushed between lectures.
Someone played guitar near the student center.
A couple argued over lunch.
Life moved forward.
Mine felt frozen.
As I packed my notebook after class, a girl I'd barely spoken to approached me.
"Hey... are you Caitlyn?"
"Yes?"
She smiled politely.
"I think someone dropped this off for you."
She handed me a plain white envelope.
No stamp.
No address.
Just my name.
Again.
My hands trembled before I even opened it.
Inside was a photocopy.
Not a letter.
Not a threat.
A medical record.
My medical record.
Age thirteen.
Diagnosis:
Oppositional Defiant Disorder.
Recommended treatment:
Medication.
Behavioral monitoring.
Parental supervision.
A handwritten note at the bottom caught my eye.
Patient displays manipulative tendencies. Mother's observations considered reliable.
I couldn't breathe.
I'd never seen these records before.
My mother had always kept them.
Maya found me sitting on a bench outside the library twenty minutes later.
I handed her the paper.
She read it twice.
Then looked at me in disbelief.
"Cait..."
"This diagnosis came almost entirely from your mother's statements."
"I know."
"No."
She pointed at the notes.
"The psychiatrist barely evaluated you."
I remembered that appointment perfectly.
Every time the doctor asked me a question...
My mother answered first.
Every single time.
Detective Brooks requested the original files.
Three days later, she called.
"You need to come in."
Something in her voice made my stomach knot.
At the station, she spread several documents across the conference table.
"We obtained the psychiatrist's complete notes."
I immediately noticed something strange.
Several pages were missing.
"What happened?"
"They were removed."
"By who?"
"We don't know."
Brooks slid another document toward me.
"But we found billing records."
I frowned.
"What about them?"
"The appointment lasted..."
She paused.
"Nine minutes."
I stared at her.
"That's impossible."
"A full psychiatric evaluation can't be done in nine minutes."
"It wasn't."
The room seemed to tilt.
Nine minutes.
Nine minutes had shaped years of my life.
Nine minutes had justified medication.
Restrictions.
Humiliation.
Isolation.
Nine minutes had convinced teachers.
Neighbors.
Friends.
That I was broken.
Brooks leaned back.
"Caitlyn..."
"I think your mother wasn't just emotionally abusive."
"I think she manipulated medical professionals."
"Possibly committed fraud."
The words hit harder than I expected.
Fraud.
Not parenting.
Not discipline.
Fraud.
That evening, Daniel walked me back to temporary housing.
Halfway there he asked quietly,
"Can I ask something?"
"Sure."
"When you left home..."
"Why didn't they stop you?"
The question lingered between us.
I'd wondered the same thing for years.
Then I remembered.
"They thought I'd fail."
"What do you mean?"
"My mother always said the world would prove her right."
"That I'd come crawling back."
"So they let you go because..."
"They believed freedom would destroy me."
Daniel looked away.
"They underestimated you."
For the first time in days, I smiled.
Only a little.
But it was real.
The smile disappeared the following morning.
Detective Brooks called before sunrise.
"Caitlyn."
"We have a problem."
"What happened?"
"Richard Hale."
"The maintenance supervisor?"
"Yes."
"He didn't come to work."
"So?"
"His apartment is empty."
My pulse quickened.
"Empty?"
"As in..."
"He moved?"
"No."
Brooks' voice became very quiet.
"As in..."
"His wallet."
"His phone."
"His car."
"Everything is still there."
"But Richard Hale..."
"...has vanished."
Two hours later, investigators searched Richard's apartment.
There were no signs of a struggle.
No blood.
No broken furniture.
His dinner from the night before still sat on the kitchen table.
His television was still on.
It looked as though he had opened the front door...
And simply ceased to exist.
Then one detective noticed something tucked beneath the coffee maker.
A folded note.
Addressed to no one.
Inside, only one sentence had been written in shaky handwriting.
May you like
She said if I talked... she'd burn her too.
End of Chapter 5.
