PART 4 — THE WOMAN ADRIAN ERASED
I listened to Margaret Shaw’s voicemail four times.
Not because I didn’t understand the words.
Because every time it ended, my brain tried to reject them.
Cynthia wasn’t Adrian’s mother.
She was his aunt.
Margaret Shaw was his real mother.
And according to Margaret, Adrian had made sure no one could find her.
For three years, I had spent holidays with Cynthia.
I had sat beside her at Thanksgiving.
Bought her perfume for Christmas.
Helped decorate her kitchen for Adrian’s birthday.
I had once asked Adrian why he looked nothing like her.
He had laughed and said:
“Good genes skip generations.”
I had believed him.
Of course I had.
Believing Adrian had once been the easiest thing in the world.
My phone was still in my hand when someone knocked on the wall.
Three times.
Matthew.
I almost ignored him.
Then came three more knocks.
I crossed the apartment and opened the door.
Matthew stood there wearing sweatpants and an old university sweatshirt.
“You’re awake.”
“So are you.”
“I heard something fall.”
I looked behind me.
A glass lay shattered beside the kitchen counter.
I hadn’t even realized I dropped it.
Matthew looked at my face.
“What happened?”
I handed him the phone.
“Listen.”
He played the voicemail.
His expression changed before it finished.
When Margaret said, “He made sure no one could find me,” Matthew looked at me.
The message ended.
He lowered the phone.
“Do you know her?”
“No.”
“You recognize the voice?”
“No.”
“You said you met his mother.”
“I met the woman he called his mother.”
Matthew was silent.
I wrapped my arms around myself.
“Cynthia.”
“The aunt.”
“Apparently.”
“Did Adrian ever mention Margaret?”
“Never.”
“Any family conflict?”
“No.”
I stopped.
Actually…
“There was one thing.”
Matthew waited.
“Adrian never kept childhood photos.”
“None?”
“I thought he hated pictures.”
“Did Cynthia have any?”
“Very few.”
My memory shifted backward.
Christmas two years earlier.
Cynthia had shown me an album while Adrian was outside helping his uncle repair a broken gate.
There had been photographs of Adrian around age twelve.
Thirteen.
Fourteen.
But almost nothing before that.
I had asked why.
Cynthia’s smile had disappeared.
She had closed the album and said:
“Those years were complicated.”
Adrian entered the room seconds later.
He saw the album.
His expression changed.
Not anger exactly.
Something colder.
That night, in the car, he told me never to ask Cynthia about his childhood.
“She went through enough,” he said.
I thought he was protecting her.
Now I wondered who he had really been protecting.
Matthew handed me the phone.
“You should send this to Elena.”
“I will.”
“And don’t call Margaret.”
I looked at him.
“I was going to.”
“I know.”
“I need answers.”
“You need answers from someone whose identity you haven’t confirmed.”
He was right.
I hated that he was right.
“So what do I do?”
“Let your lawyer handle contact first.”
I stared at Margaret’s number.
“What if she’s really his mother?”
“Then she’ll still be his mother tomorrow.”
That stopped me.
Three years with Adrian had trained me to treat every emotional crisis as an emergency.
Answer now.
Explain now.
Fix it tonight.
Matthew had a strange way of reminding me that sometimes nothing terrible happened if I waited until morning.
I forwarded the voicemail to Elena.
At 8:04 the next morning, she called.
“I listened to it.”
“And?”
“And I want you to do absolutely nothing.”
“That seems to be everyone’s favorite advice.”
“It’s good advice.”
“Can you find out who Margaret is?”
“I already started.”
I sat up straighter.
“You did?”
“Paula, this stopped being a breakup several days ago.”
Her tone was calm.
“It became a documentation exercise.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means every new person who appears claiming information about Mr. Shaw gets verified before you engage.”
I looked toward the window.
“So I shouldn’t call her.”
“No.”
“What if she knows something important?”
“Then she can tell me.”
I heard papers shifting.
“I’m sending her a message from my office today.”
“Do you think Adrian knows she contacted me?”
“I have no idea.”
That answer frightened me more than speculation would have.
Elena continued.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“I received a response from Adrian’s attorney.”
My stomach tightened.
“He actually hired one?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He withdrew the financial demand.”
I blinked.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Why?”
“My guess?”
“Yes.”
“He never wanted the money.”
Matthew had said the same thing.
Leverage.
“He wanted contact.”
“Exactly.”
“And when you answered instead of me…”
“He lost the advantage.”
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, I felt watched.
“What else was in the response?”
“A denial.”
“Of what?”
“Harassment. Surveillance. Sending individuals to your workplace or your parents’ home.”
I almost laughed.
“So Dylan Mercer just randomly knew my name and workplace?”
“I didn’t say the denial was convincing.”
“And the photograph?”
“They deny knowledge.”
“Of course.”
“Elena.”
“Yes?”
“What if Margaret is part of this?”
She paused.
“That possibility is exactly why you’re not contacting her.”
At work, I tried to concentrate.
I failed.
Every ordinary sound pulled my attention away.
The elevator bell.
Footsteps in the hallway.
A phone ringing at reception.
Twice I caught myself looking toward the office entrance.
By noon, Rebecca noticed.
“Go home.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve reread the same report six times.”
“Seven.”
“That doesn’t improve your case.”
I smiled weakly.
“I don’t want him changing my life again.”
Rebecca leaned against my desk.
“Taking one afternoon off because something strange is happening isn’t letting someone control your life.”
She looked at me.
“Pretending you aren’t affected when you are isn’t strength either.”
That hit harder than I expected.
Adrian had always praised me when I swallowed feelings.
You’re finally being reasonable.
You’re so much prettier when you’re not upset.
Why can’t you always be this easy?
I closed the report.
“Okay.”
“Good.”
“Half day.”
“Full afternoon.”
“Bossy.”
“I sign your paycheck.”
“Fair.”
I left around twelve thirty.
Instead of going home, I went to a café near Elena’s office.
I ordered coffee.
Black.
Two sugars.
It still felt like a tiny rebellion.
At 1:17, my phone rang.
Elena.
“I verified Margaret.”
I stopped breathing.
“And?”
“She exists.”
“That’s not enough.”
“I know.”
“Is she Adrian’s mother?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
I sat completely still.
Elena continued.
“Margaret Elise Shaw. Sixty-two. Lives outside Pittsburgh. Birth records list her as Adrian Malcolm Shaw’s mother.”
My hand tightened around the coffee cup.
“And Cynthia?”
“Margaret’s younger sister.”
I closed my eyes.
It was real.
All of it.
“Why did Cynthia raise him?”
“That part is complicated.”
“How complicated?”
“There was a custody dispute when Adrian was eleven.”
I opened my eyes.
“Custody dispute?”
“Margaret temporarily lost custody.”
“Why?”
“According to court summaries I’ve accessed, there were allegations involving instability and neglect.”
My heart sank.
“So Adrian was telling the truth?”
“He never told you anything.”
Right.
I swallowed.
“What happened after that?”
“Cynthia became his guardian.”
“And Margaret?”
“She petitioned several times to regain contact.”
“Did she?”
“Most requests were denied initially.”
“So maybe Adrian had a reason to stay away.”
“Possibly.”
Elena’s tone sharpened slightly.
“Paula, do not decide who is innocent based on half a file.”
I stared into my coffee.
“I know.”
“No, you want a simple villain.”
I said nothing.
“Life rarely gives one.”
That was true.
And strangely reassuring.
“What changed later?”
“Margaret eventually received supervised visitation.”
“And?”
“Adrian refused.”
I frowned.
“He was allowed to?”
“He was sixteen by then. His preference mattered.”
“So when she said he made sure no one could find her…”
“That might refer to later events.”
“Did you contact her?”
“Yes.”
My heart started pounding.
“And?”
“She wants to meet.”
“With me?”
“With both of us.”
“Today?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
I almost said yes immediately.
Then I remembered Matthew.
Elena.
Every lesson I had learned over the past month.
“Public place?”
“My office.”
“Okay.”
“Paula.”
“Yes?”
“Margaret sounded frightened.”
“So did Sophia.”
“I know.”
That frightened me even more.
The next afternoon, Margaret Shaw walked into Elena’s conference room carrying a faded blue folder.
The first thing I noticed was Adrian’s eyes.
Not similar.
Not vaguely alike.
The same.
Gray with a dark ring around the iris.
For one second, looking at her felt like looking at Adrian thirty years in the future.
Margaret stopped when she saw me.
Her mouth trembled.
“You’re Paula.”
“Yes.”
She held her hands together tightly.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For calling you directly.”
Her voice matched the voicemail.
“I didn’t know who else to contact.”
Elena gestured toward the chair across from me.
“Please sit.”
Margaret sat.
The blue folder remained clutched against her chest.
I studied her.
She looked nothing like a woman staging some dramatic reunion.
No expensive clothes.
No theatrical tears.
Just exhaustion.
Deep exhaustion.
“Why did you call me?” I asked.
She looked at Elena first.
Then me.
“Because I saw your name.”
“Where?”
“On a private investigator’s desk.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
Elena leaned forward.
“What investigator?”
“His name is Raymond Cole.”
“Who hired him?”
“Adrian.”
I felt cold.
“How do you know?”
Margaret looked down.
“Because Raymond used to work for me.”
Silence.
Elena reached for her pen.
“Explain.”
Margaret opened the blue folder.
Inside were old documents.
Photographs.
Letters.
Court papers.
“I need to start earlier.”
I wanted to scream.
Every person connected to Adrian seemed to have a sentence like that.
But I nodded.
Margaret took a breath.
“I had Adrian when I was twenty-three.”
She touched one photograph.
A baby wrapped in a blue blanket.
“I wasn’t married.”
“Who was his father?” Elena asked.
“Thomas Shaw.”
“Same surname?”
“My married name came from him later.”
“You married?”
“For six years.”
She looked at me.
“He was charming.”
My stomach tightened.
“He could make an entire room like him.”
I already knew where this was going.
“He was also controlling.”
Margaret’s fingers curled around the photograph.
“When Adrian was ten, Thomas died.”
“How?”
“Car accident.”
I remembered Adrian telling me his father died when he was nine.
Close enough to sound innocent.
Margaret continued.
“I fell apart afterward.”
Her eyes filled.
“I drank too much. I missed work. There were days I barely got out of bed.”
She didn’t excuse herself.
That mattered.
“My sister Cynthia stepped in.”
“She took Adrian.”
“Yes.”
“Against your wishes?”
“At first, no.”
Margaret shook her head.
“I needed help.”
She looked at the table.
“I thought it would be temporary.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“Cynthia decided Adrian was safer with her.”
“Was he?”
Margaret’s face tightened.
“At that moment? Probably.”
The answer surprised me.
“But I got treatment.”
She continued.
“I stopped drinking. I found stable work. I did everything the court asked.”
“And Adrian still refused contact.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She opened another section of the folder.
Letters.
Dozens.
Most unopened.
“Cynthia told him I abandoned him.”
Margaret’s voice broke.
“She told him I chose alcohol over him.”
“Was that completely false?” Elena asked.
Margaret met her gaze.
“No.”
I respected her more for that answer.
“But she told him I never tried to come back.”
Margaret pushed the letters forward.
“I did.”
I picked up one.
RETURN TO SENDER.
Another.
RETURN TO SENDER.
Another.
NOT ACCEPTED.
Dates spanning years.
“Cynthia sent these back?”
“Sometimes.”
Margaret swallowed.
“Sometimes Adrian did.”
I set them down.
“So why did you say he made sure no one could find you?”
Margaret’s expression changed.
“That came later.”
“How much later?”
“When Adrian was twenty-four.”
That was five years ago.
“I had stopped trying by then.”
Her voice grew quieter.
“Then he appeared at my house.”
My heart began beating harder.
“After almost thirteen years?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Margaret gave a humorless laugh.
“He said he wanted answers.”
“Did you give them?”
“I tried.”
“What happened?”
“For six months, we spoke regularly.”
I stared at her.
Adrian had never mentioned reconnecting with his mother.
Not once.
“He came to dinner. Met my husband. Met his half-sister.”
“He has a sister?”
“Half-sister. Emily.”
Another hidden relative.
Another erased person.
“He told me he forgave me.”
Margaret’s eyes filled.
“And I believed him.”
Something in her tone made Elena stop writing.
“What changed?”
“Emily received a scholarship.”
I frowned.
“What does that have to do with Adrian?”
“Nothing.”
Margaret looked at me.
“That was the problem.”
I didn’t understand.
“She was seventeen.”
Margaret continued.
“We celebrated. Adrian was there.”
“He seemed happy.”
“Then afterward, he started asking questions about what I had paid for Emily.”
School.
Car.
Lessons.
College savings.
“How much did you spend on her?”
“Roughly?”
“Hundreds of thousands over her childhood, probably.”
“And Adrian?”
Margaret laughed once.
Painfully.
“He asked for the same amount.”
My stomach dropped.
“He thought you owed him.”
“Yes.”
Three years.
She owes me.
Thirty-eight thousand dollars.
The language was identical.
“What did you say?”
“I told him love wasn’t accounting.”
My skin prickled.
“He didn’t like that.”
“What did he do?”
“At first, nothing.”
Margaret opened another section.
Printed emails.
“He sent invoices.”
I stared.
“Invoices?”
“Estimated costs of what he believed he had lost because Cynthia raised him instead of me.”
Therapy.
Tuition differences.
Housing.
Lost gifts.
Missed birthdays.
Even estimated inheritance.
My stomach turned.
“He did this to you too.”
Margaret looked confused.
I told her about Adrian’s spreadsheet.
The thirty-eight thousand dollars.
Her face went pale.
“Oh, God.”
“What?”
“He used the same language.”
Elena leaned forward.
“What happened when you refused to pay?”
Margaret’s hands began shaking.
“He contacted my employer.”
My chest tightened.
“He said I was unstable.”
Exactly what Adrian had allegedly been telling people about me.
“He contacted Emily’s college.”
“Why?”
“To tell them our family finances were fraudulent.”
“Were they?”
“No.”
“He filed complaints anyway.”
Margaret’s eyes hardened.
“He didn’t need them to succeed.”
“He needed you scared,” I said.
She looked at me.
“Yes.”
The room went silent.
“And Raymond Cole?” Elena asked.
Margaret took another breath.
“My husband hired him.”
“To investigate Adrian?”
“To document what Adrian was doing.”
“When?”
“Four years ago.”
Margaret’s voice lowered.
“Because things escalated.”
I felt my hands turn cold.
“How?”
She looked at me.
“One morning, Emily disappeared.”
No one spoke.
“What do you mean disappeared?”
“She was nineteen.”
Margaret stared at the table.
“She left for class.”
“Never arrived.”
My stomach twisted.
“Was she kidnapped?”
“We didn’t know.”
“How long was she gone?”
“Eleven hours.”
I almost exhaled in relief.
Almost.
“Where was she?”
“In a motel outside town.”
“What happened?”
Margaret’s face changed.
“She said Adrian picked her up.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“He told her I had been in an accident.”
Elena’s pen stopped.
“He lied?”
“Yes.”
“He drove her to a motel?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Margaret’s eyes filled with tears.
“He wanted me to understand what it felt like to lose a child.”
The air left my lungs.
For eleven hours, Adrian had made his own half-sister disappear.
“What did he do to Emily?”
“Nothing physical.”
Margaret answered quickly.
“He kept telling her his phone was dead.”
“He said they were waiting for updates.”
“He bought food.”
“He acted calm.”
“She believed him for hours.”
“Then?”
“She tried to leave.”
Margaret’s lips trembled.
“He blocked the door.”
I felt sick.
“Did she call police?”
“Eventually.”
“What happened to Adrian?”
“Emily refused to press charges.”
“Why?”
“She was terrified.”
Margaret wiped her eyes.
“And because Adrian convinced her that no one would believe he intended harm.”
Matthew’s words returned to me.
People can be harmless until they stop getting what they want.
“Did you report him?”
“Yes.”
“No charges?”
“Not enough evidence for what we believed happened.”
Elena frowned.
“Why wasn’t there more documentation?”
“Because Adrian disappeared afterward.”
The room became very still.
“Disappeared?”
“Changed numbers.”
“Moved.”
“Deleted accounts.”
Margaret looked at me.
“Exactly the way you did.”
That hit me strangely.
Adrian knew disappearance could create power.
Perhaps because he had done it first.
“How long?”
“Almost two years.”
“And then?”
“He resurfaced.”
“Where?”
“Your city.”
My heart stopped.
Margaret looked directly at me.
“With you.”
The world tilted.
“What?”
“I first saw your photograph about eighteen months ago.”
“How?”
“Raymond found him.”
I looked at Elena.
Then Margaret.
“Why were you still investigating him?”
“Because Emily was terrified he would return.”
Margaret looked ashamed.
“And because I needed to know he wasn’t hurting someone else.”
My voice hardened.
“So you watched me for eighteen months?”
“Not you.”
“Don’t play with words.”
“I’m not.”
She leaned forward.
“We tracked Adrian’s public information.”
“You knew he was with me.”
“Yes.”
“You knew what he had done.”
“Yes.”
“And you never warned me.”
Margaret’s face collapsed.
“I almost did.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“I know.”
“You watched me spend three years with him.”
“I didn’t know the full nature of your relationship.”
“You knew enough.”
“Yes.”
For the first time, anger replaced fear.
Good.
Anger was easier.
“Then why now?”
“Because Raymond called me four days ago.”
She reached into the folder.
“He said Adrian hired him.”
“To find me.”
“Yes.”
“Why would Raymond accept?”
“He didn’t know it was you initially.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Adrian gave him limited information.”
“A woman named Paula who left suddenly.”
Margaret slid a paper across the table.
“When Raymond realized who you were, he contacted me.”
I looked down.
It was a printed email.
Subject:
LOCATE REQUEST — P.L.
Target:
Female, late twenties.
Recently left shared residence.
Changed employment.
New number unknown.
Possible relocation within regional rail corridor.
Priority: HIGH.
The description continued.
Known habits.
Favorite cafés.
Former gym.
Friends.
My parents’ city.
Possible financial institutions.
Every line made my stomach turn.
Then I reached the bottom.
The fee.
$12,000.
“Adrian paid twelve thousand dollars to find me?”
Margaret nodded.
“Apparently.”
Elena took the document.
“Why did Raymond give this to you?”
“Because he refused the job.”
“Then how did you know I was the target?”
“He recognized Adrian.”
Margaret looked at me.
“And your name.”
My throat tightened.
“Where did he get my new workplace?”
“He didn’t.”
I stared at her.
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know.”
Silence.
That meant Adrian had another source.
Another path.
Another person.
Elena looked at me.
“This changes our strategy.”
“How?”
“We seek an emergency protective order.”
I didn’t argue.
Not anymore.
Margaret touched the folder.
“There’s something else.”
I almost laughed.
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“When Raymond refused, Adrian contacted another investigator.”
“How do you know?”
“Raymond heard.”
“Name?”
“Victor Hale.”
Elena wrote it down.
Margaret looked at me.
“He’s not like Raymond.”
“What does that mean?”
“He takes jobs Raymond won’t.”
A chill ran through me.
“What kind of jobs?”
“Tracking people who don’t want to be found.”
For the first time since leaving Adrian, I felt genuine fear.
Not anxiety.
Not uncertainty.
Fear.
“What do I do?”
Elena answered immediately.
“You do not go home alone.”
I thought of apartment 601.
My plants.
My crooked bookshelf.
My mattress.
My tiny new life.
“I’m not leaving again.”
“I didn’t say forever.”
“I just got there.”
“Paula.”
“No.”
I heard the sharpness in my own voice.
“Adrian already made me quit one job, leave one apartment, change one phone number, and move cities.”
“That was your choice.”
“I know.”
“But if I leave again because he found me, then I’m still moving according to him.”
Elena’s expression softened.
“Staying alive isn’t surrender.”
The words silenced me.
Margaret closed her eyes.
I suddenly wondered how many times she had learned that lesson.
That evening, Matthew picked me up from Elena’s office.
He didn’t make jokes.
Not this time.
I told him everything in the car.
Margaret.
Emily.
The motel.
The private investigator.
The twelve thousand dollars.
Victor Hale.
When I finished, Matthew was gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.
“You’re not staying alone.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
“Stay with me.”
I looked at him.
“That’s still in the same building.”
“I know.”
“So what difference does it make?”
“Two locks.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
He glanced at me.
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“You can take my bedroom.”
“Matthew.”
“I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“No.”
“Paula.”
“Stop.”
He did.
I looked out the window.
There was something comforting about his protectiveness.
There was also something dangerous about how easy it would be to let another person become responsible for my safety.
I had just escaped a relationship where dependence had turned into control.
I wasn’t replacing Adrian with anyone.
Not even someone kind.
“I’ll stay in my apartment.”
Matthew frowned.
“But I’ll call the police if anything happens.”
“And?”
“And I’ll keep my door locked.”
“And?”
I looked at him.
“And you can install whatever paranoid architect security upgrades you want.”
His mouth twitched.
“Deal.”
By midnight, my front door had a reinforced plate.
A second deadbolt.
A cheap camera pointed toward the hallway.
Matthew installed another camera near the stairwell.
Mrs. Alvarez emerged from 503 wearing slippers and carrying binoculars.
“What are we looking for?” she asked.
Matthew stared at her.
“Mrs. Alvarez, go inside.”
She looked offended.
“I survived two husbands and a robbery in Queens.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“I can identify suspicious men.”
“You identify everyone as suspicious.”
“Because most people are.”
I almost smiled.
Then the elevator opened.
All three of us turned.
A delivery driver stepped out holding pizza.
Mrs. Alvarez narrowed her eyes.
“I don’t trust him.”
The driver looked terrified.
“Apartment 603?”
Matthew pointed.
“That way.”
The driver hurried past.
For the first time all day, I laughed.
It felt strange.
Good strange.
At 1:30 a.m., I finally went to bed.
At 2:16, my phone buzzed.
Motion detected.
Front door.
I sat upright.
My heart exploded into motion.
I opened the camera app.
The hallway was empty.
Then a shadow moved near the stairs.
I called Matthew.
He answered immediately.
“What?”
“Camera.”
“I see it.”
“Don’t open your door.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
Two seconds later:
“I’m calling police.”
The shadow moved again.
A man stepped partially into view.
Baseball cap.
Dark jacket.
His face turned away.
He approached my door.
My breath stopped.
He didn’t knock.
He crouched.
Reached toward the floor.
Then placed something against my door.
The camera captured only his hand.
He stood.
Looked directly at the lens.
For one second, his face became visible.
Older.
Maybe forty.
Scar along his chin.
Then he smiled.
Not nervously.
Not accidentally.
He smiled because he knew I was watching.
And walked away.
Police arrived seven minutes later.
The object outside my door was a small padded envelope.
No return address.
They opened it.
Inside was a USB drive.
Nothing else.
The officer advised me not to plug it into any personal device.
At 3:40 in the morning, a digital forensics technician at the precinct accessed it on an isolated computer.
There was one file.
A video.
The officer asked if I wanted to watch.
I almost said no.
Then I thought about Adrian’s strategy.
He had spent years controlling what I knew.
I was done looking away.
“Play it.”
The screen went black.
Then an image appeared.
It was me.
Walking out of my new office.
Recorded from across the street.
Another clip.
Me entering the grocery store.
Another.
Me sitting with Matthew at the café.
Another.
Me leaving Elena’s office.
Someone had been following me for days.
My stomach turned.
Then came a final clip.
My parents’ house.
My mother opening the curtains.
My father carrying groceries.
The camera zoomed toward the front door.
Text appeared across the screen.
YOU CAN CHANGE YOUR NUMBER.
Next clip.
My new apartment building.
YOU CAN CHANGE YOUR JOB.
Next.
Matthew entering 602.
YOU CAN CHANGE YOUR CITY.
Then the screen went black.
One final sentence appeared.
BUT YOU CANNOT CHANGE WHAT YOU OWE.
My skin went cold.
The video ended.
No signature.
No voice.
Nothing directly identifying Adrian.
But I knew.
The officer looked at me.
“Do you recognize the wording?”
“Yes.”
“From whom?”
“My ex-boyfriend.”
He started writing.
Then another officer entered.
“Ms. Lane?”
“Yes?”
“We ran the face from the hallway footage.”
I stood.
“Did you identify him?”
“Yes.”
My heart began pounding.
“Victor Hale?”
The officer looked surprised.
“You know the name?”
“Someone warned me.”
He nodded.
“That’s him.”
Fear crawled up my spine.
Adrian really had hired a man to follow me.
But the officer wasn’t finished.
“There’s another issue.”
“What?”
“Mr. Hale was arrested three years ago.”
“For what?”
The officer glanced at the notes.
“Unlawful surveillance and attempted extortion.”
I felt sick.
“And Adrian hired him anyway.”
“Possibly.”
“What do you mean possibly?”
“We need evidence tying your ex directly to the investigator.”
I looked toward the frozen video frame.
Victor smiling into my camera.
“How much more evidence do you need?”
“We need enough that survives court.”
I hated that answer because it was true.
By sunrise, Elena had filed emergency papers.
I didn’t sleep.
Matthew stayed beside me in the precinct waiting area.
At 8:12 a.m., Sophia called.
I hadn’t heard from her in two days.
I answered immediately.
“Sophia?”
She was crying.
“Paula.”
“What happened?”
“He found me.”
My stomach dropped.
“Adrian?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“My sister’s.”
“Is he there?”
“No.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
She struggled to breathe.
“He came last night.”
“Call police.”
“I did.”
“Then what happened?”
“They made him leave.”
“Okay.”
“No, Paula.”
Her voice broke.
“He didn’t come because of me.”
I looked at Matthew.
“What do you mean?”
“He asked about you.”
My blood froze.
“What did he say?”
Sophia took a shaky breath.
“He said he knows I gave you the USB.”
Silence.
Only four people knew.
Sophia.
Me.
Matthew.
Elena.
Unless Adrian had discovered it another way.
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“What exactly did he say?”
Sophia started crying harder.
“He said, ‘Tell Paula she has something that belongs to me.’”
“The files?”
“I thought so.”
“But?”
Sophia lowered her voice.
“He said it wasn’t the files.”
My pulse changed.
“What does he think I have?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sophia.”
“I swear.”
She breathed.
“Then he said something else.”
“What?”
“He said you took it from the apartment.”
“I took clothes.”
“I know.”
“Two suitcases.”
“I know.”
“I left everything else.”
“I told him that.”
“And?”
“He laughed.”
The hairs on my arms rose.
“What did he say?”
Sophia whispered:
“He said, ‘Paula doesn’t even know she has it.’”
I stopped breathing.
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
Then Matthew leaned closer.
“What?”
I put Sophia on speaker.
“Say it again.”
She did.
Paula doesn’t even know she has it.
I thought about everything I had packed that morning.
Clothes.
Shoes.
Laptop.
Books.
Toiletries.
Documents.
Old photographs.
A jewelry box.
Two suitcases.
One backpack.
Nothing unusual.
Then a memory hit me.
I stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
“Paula?” Matthew said.
“My backpack.”
“What about it?”
“The night I left.”
I could suddenly see myself packing.
Shoving chargers into side pockets.
Documents into the laptop compartment.
The old external hard drive I used for work.
And something else.
Something Adrian had handed me months before.
A small silver flash drive.
“Keep this somewhere safe,” he had said.
“What is it?”
“Backups.”
“Of what?”
“Work stuff.”
I had thrown it into my backpack and forgotten about it.
My mouth went dry.
“I have another USB drive.”
Matthew stood.
“Where?”
“My apartment.”
Elena, who had just entered the waiting area carrying coffee, stopped.
“What USB drive?”
I told them.
Her expression changed instantly.
“We go with police.”
Thirty minutes later, two officers entered apartment 601 before us.
Nothing appeared disturbed.
I went straight to the bedroom.
My backpack was beside the dresser.
I opened the front pocket.
Chargers.
Pens.
Receipts.
Nothing.
Second pocket.
Notebook.
Headphones.
Then the small hidden zipper inside.
My fingers touched metal.
I froze.
I pulled it out.
Silver.
No label.
Exactly as I remembered.
Matthew stared at it.
“That’s what he wants?”
“I don’t know.”
Elena placed it inside an evidence bag.
“We’re not opening this ourselves.”
At the precinct, another technician connected the drive to an isolated machine.
Encrypted.
Password protected.
“Can you get in?” I asked.
“Probably.”
“How long?”
He ignored the question and began working.
Twenty minutes later, the first folder appeared.
Then another.
Then dozens.
Financial records.
Contracts.
Bank statements.
Scanned IDs.
Photographs.
I stared at the screen.
“What is all this?”
The technician clicked one folder.
My stomach dropped.
Names.
Dozens of names.
Women.
I recognized Sophia.
Then myself.
PAULA LANE.
There were other folders.
JESSICA MORGAN.
KATE WELLS.
AMBER REED.
LUCY PARK.
NATALIE GRANT.
Each contained photographs.
Messages.
Addresses.
Financial information.
Passwords.
Private documents.
Exactly like the folder Sophia had found about me.
Except some dated back ten years.
Elena went completely still.
“This wasn’t about you.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“He’s done this before.”
The technician opened another folder.
TRANSACTIONS.
Payments.
Transfers.
Large amounts.
Many from women’s accounts into companies I didn’t recognize.
Then one file caught Elena’s attention.
SHAW CONSULTING.
She opened it.
Payments totaling hundreds of thousands of dollars.
My heart hammered.
“What is Shaw Consulting?”
No one answered.
Then the technician opened a document labeled AGREEMENTS.
Inside were scanned signatures.
Some looked legitimate.
Some did not.
Elena leaned closer.
“Paula.”
Her voice had changed.
“What?”
“I think this is evidence of fraud.”
I felt the room tilt.
Not emotional abuse.
Not stalking.
Fraud.
Possibly something much bigger.
Then another folder appeared.
PHOTOS.
Inside were surveillance images.
Margaret.
Emily.
Sophia.
Me.
And several women I had never seen.
One photograph showed a woman leaving a courthouse.
Another showed a woman with two small children.
Another showed someone entering a bank.
Then Matthew pointed at the screen.
“Stop.”
The technician froze.
Matthew stepped closer.
His face had gone completely white.
“What?”
He didn’t answer.
He pointed to one photograph.
A woman standing outside a brick house.
Blonde.
Mid-thirties.
Holding car keys.
I looked at Matthew.
“You know her?”
He didn’t blink.
“That’s Claire.”
“Who’s Claire?”
His voice barely came out.
“My ex-wife.”
The room went silent.
I stared at the photograph.
Then at Matthew.
Then back at the screen.
Claire.
The woman who had harassed him after their separation.
The woman who had told his clients he was unstable.
The woman he had described as controlling.
“What is her picture doing on Adrian’s drive?”
Matthew whispered:
“I don’t know.”
Then the technician clicked the image details.
Date taken:
Four years earlier.
Matthew stared at it.
“That was before I divorced her.”
My heartbeat slowed into something heavy.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“Paula.”
His face had lost all color.
“Four years ago, Claire started disappearing for hours.”
I said nothing.
“She told me she was seeing a therapist.”
His eyes stayed fixed on the photograph.
“I never knew the therapist’s name.”
The technician clicked the next image.
Claire sitting inside a restaurant.
Across from her was a man.
Only the back of his head was visible.
Dark hair.
Familiar posture.
My stomach dropped before the next photograph loaded.
Adrian turned toward the camera.
Clear.
Smiling.
Sitting across from Matthew’s wife.
Four years ago.
Long before Matthew and I met.
Long before I supposedly chose my new city at random.
No one spoke.
Then another document opened automatically.
A spreadsheet.
Names.
Addresses.
Relationships.
Next to Matthew Gray:
ARCHITECT.
DIVORCED.
RESIDENCE: 602.
My blood turned to ice.
Below it was another line.
PAULA LANE.
And beside my name:
POSSIBLE PLACEMENT: 601.
I could hear my own heartbeat.
Matthew stared at the screen.
“What does placement mean?”
I couldn’t answer.
Because suddenly I remembered choosing the city.
Opening a map.
Putting my finger down.
Finding the apartment online that afternoon.
Apartment 601.
The one beside Matthew.
The stranger whose ex-wife appeared in Adrian’s files.
The coincidence that had felt like fate.
It hadn’t been fate.
It hadn’t even been coincidence.
Elena whispered the question I was too afraid to ask.
“Paula… who sent you the apartment listing?”
My mouth went dry.
“No one.”
Then I remembered.
On the train, before I rented it, I had searched apartments.
One listing had appeared as a sponsored recommendation in a housing group.
Cheap.
Available immediately.
No deposit.
I had clicked it without thinking.
My blood froze.
Someone had wanted me in apartment 601.
Someone who knew Matthew lived in 602.
Someone who knew Claire.
Someone who had been planning something long before I ever decided to leave Adrian.
And suddenly the worst possibility of all entered my mind.
Maybe Adrian hadn’t been desperately trying to find where I went.
Maybe he had known exactly where I would go from the beginning…………..
TO BE CONTINUED IN LAST PART…
