Chapter 8 - They Tried to Steal the EvidenceThe first sign that someone had entered our garage came on Thursday morning.
David noticed that the sheet covering the damaged bicycle had been moved. One of the side doors was still locked, but the latch on the internal storage cabinet stood open.
He called me from the driveway.
“Catherine, did you move the photographs?”
“No.”
“The flash drive?”
My stomach tightened.
“What about it?”
“It's missing.”
The flash drive contained copies of the security footage, the photographs of the bicycle, and the original emails I had saved from the manufacturer and Daniel.
The documents also existed in encrypted storage, but whoever had entered the garage had known exactly where to look.
I walked through the house, checking the windows and doors.
Nothing else appeared to be missing.
Then David found a muddy shoeprint beneath the small side window.
He called the police.
While we waited, I opened our security system on my laptop. The camera covering the garage entrance had recorded movement at 1:47 a.m.
The person wore a dark jacket and a baseball cap.
The face was turned away from the camera.
But I recognized the way the person moved.
My sister had a slight limp from an old ankle injury. She favored her right leg when stepping down from a curb.
The figure in the footage did exactly that.
When the officers arrived, I provided the recording and answered their questions. I did not accuse Shayla as though suspicion were proof. I explained what I had observed and let the investigators decide what to do next.
After they left, David placed a hand on my shoulder.
“You don't have to protect her.”
“I know.”
“Then don't.”
At noon, Shayla called me.
“What did you tell the police?”
I went still.
“Why?”
“Because Mom says you called them over a stupid misunderstanding.”
“I reported an unauthorized entry.”
“You accused me of stealing from you!”
“I showed them the footage.”
Her voice rose.
“You think you're so clever. You keep everything, don't you? Pictures, emails, recordings. You can't just be a normal sister.”
I looked at the laptop in front of me.
“Someone entered my garage in the middle of the night and took evidence connected to a safety investigation. What did you expect me to do?”
“Forget it happened!”
“Did you enter my property last night?”
Silence.
“Shayla?”
“You're making a mistake.”
“That's not an answer.”
She hung up.
An hour later, an email arrived from the manufacturer's legal department.
The company claimed it had learned that confidential information related to its products might have been accessed by unauthorized individuals. It requested that I preserve all material and cooperate with an internal review.
I forwarded the email to Evelyn and the independent product-liability attorney she had recommended.
Then I noticed the sender's signature.
The message had come from a lawyer who had represented the company in Emily's original settlement.
The same lawyer who had signed the agreement nearly thirty years earlier.
I called Robert Hale.
He answered after three rings.
“I wondered when you'd see that name,” he said.
“You recognize him?”
“Very well. He handled the negotiations for the manufacturer.”
“Is he still involved in safety matters?”
“I couldn't say.”
“Then why would he contact me now?”
Robert paused.
“Because the old settlement may be relevant to the current investigation.”
I leaned back.
“The company is trying to retrieve documents.”
“Then make certain you preserve everything lawfully and follow your independent attorney's advice. Don't send confidential material to the public. Don't alter anything. And don't let anger tempt you into an avoidable mistake.”
“I won't.”
“Good. There is something else you need to know.”
My heart began to pound.
“What?”
“Your grandfather wasn't the only person who received correspondence regarding the old accident.”
“Who else?”
“Your mother. She wrote to my office several months after the settlement.”
I gripped the phone.
“What did she say?”
“I can't recall the exact wording without reviewing the file. But she asked whether the agreement could be reopened if further evidence emerged.”
“Why would she ask that if she believed the company?”
“She may not have believed the company.”
I stared through the window toward the garage.
“Did you answer her?”
“I advised her that the original claim had been settled, but that new evidence of a broader safety issue might justify further investigation. I never heard from her again.”
“Do you still have the letter?”
“I will look.”
That evening, David and I installed an additional camera near the garage.
We moved the remaining evidence into secure storage and documented the missing flash drive for the police.
At nine, a notification appeared on my phone.
Shayla had posted another public message.
This time, she claimed I had fabricated the safety issue to get revenge on my family and had staged the bicycle damage to make her look abusive.
The comments were ugly.
People who had never met Eliza were discussing whether she was a manipulative child.
I locked my phone.
Then the doorbell rang.
I opened the door to find Brooklyn standing on the porch alone, clutching a folded piece of paper.
She looked frightened.
“Aunt Catherine?”
I knelt.
“What are you doing here, sweetheart?”
She pushed the paper into my hand.
“Mom said to throw this away.”
I unfolded it.
It was a copy of an old recall notice.
At the top was the bicycle manufacturer's name.
At the bottom, beneath the return instructions, someone had written a note in blue ink.
May you like
The handwriting belonged to my mother.
Do not tell Catherine. She will make this impossible.
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