Chapter 5 - Someone Had Already Searched the Motel RoomEmily’s motel room had been broken into.
Not dramatically.
No shattered door.
No broken lock.
That would have been easier.
Someone had used a key.
The bed had been stripped.
Anna’s clothes were scattered across the floor.
Drawers emptied.
Mattress lifted.
Marcus stood in the doorway.
“Don’t touch anything.”
Emily stared.
“My stuff.”
Officer Lena Torres, the female security agent Emily had chosen, called local police.
Marcus moved slowly through the room.
“Where was the blue box?”
Emily pointed.
“Under Mom’s bed.”
Gone.
Marcus’s jaw tightened.
“What else?”
Emily entered despite his warning.
Her eyes filled.
“My pictures.”
Photographs lay everywhere.
Some torn from albums.
But not stolen.
Whoever came here wanted something specific.
Emily suddenly dropped to her knees.
“My letter box.”
Marcus turned.
“What?”
She crawled toward the wall.
There was a narrow gap behind an old nightstand.
Emily reached.
Pulled out a cheap plastic container.
“My mom kept letters.”
Marcus opened it after Emily nodded.
Utility bills.
Hospital notices.
School documents.
Then dozens of envelopes.
Returned mail.
Every one addressed to:
RICHARD HALE
HALE GROUP HEADQUARTERS
LOS ANGELES, CA
Marcus felt cold.
Anna had written Richard.
Again and again.
Richard said she disappeared.
He apparently never received them.
Marcus opened none without Emily’s permission.
She handed him the first.
RETURN TO SENDER.
The second.
ADDRESS UNKNOWN.
Impossible.
Hale headquarters had occupied the same building for twenty-three years.
Someone intentionally rejected them.
Marcus checked dates.
The first letter was nine years ago.
The most recent—
four months ago.
Anna had tried to contact Richard until nearly the end of her life.
Marcus called Richard.
“What?”
“Did Anna ever write you?”
Silence.
“No.”
“She sent at least thirty letters.”
Richard stopped.
“What?”
“They were returned.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Apparently not.”
Marcus looked around the room.
“Someone intercepted them for nine years.”
Richard’s voice changed.
“Bring them.”
“We will.”
Marcus ended the call.
Emily sat on the motel bed frame.
“She kept trying.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
Marcus looked at the returned envelopes.
“Maybe because every time she tried, somebody proved her fear right.”
Lena found something beneath a dresser.
A hotel keycard.
Not from the motel.
Beverly Hills Grand.
Marcus took a photograph.
“Recent?”
Lena checked the printed code.
No guest name.
But security could trace it.
Then Emily found something.
“Marcus.”
He turned.
She had opened the violin case.
Under the velvet lining near the bow compartment was a small stitched seam.
Emily pulled gently.
A narrow paper strip emerged.
Marcus crouched.
Anna’s handwriting.
If the blue box is gone, the violin still remembers.
Marcus frowned.
“The violin?”
Emily looked at the instrument.
Marcus examined it.
No obvious compartment.
Then he remembered the silver plate.
FOR EMILY — A.H.
He gently pressed one corner.
Nothing.
Lena brought a flashlight.
They studied the fittings.
Near the chin rest was a tiny screw unlike the others.
Marcus used a multitool.
The silver plate loosened.
Behind it—
a small brass key.
Emily stared.
“Mom hid a key in my violin?”
Marcus smiled sadly.
“That definitely sounds like Anna.”
Attached to the key was a number.
No address.
No company.
Just 317.
Marcus took a picture.
Then heard movement outside.
He stood.
A man in a motel maintenance uniform walked past.
Too slowly.
Marcus opened the door.
“Hey.”
The man ran.
Marcus followed.
The man reached the stairwell.
Lena pursued from the other side.
He was trapped at the landing.
Marcus did not tackle him.
He simply blocked the exit.
“Who sent you?”
The man looked terrified.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Lena showed him her security credentials.
“Police are already coming.”
His face changed.
Marcus noticed a hotel pin on his jacket.
Not the motel.
The same golden hawk Emily described.
“Where did you get that?”
The man looked down.
Too late.
Marcus’s voice dropped.
“Who inside Hale sent you?”
The man tried to move.
Marcus did not.
“Talk.”
“I just pick things up.”
“What things?”
“Packages.”
“What package?”
The man looked toward Emily’s room.
Marcus felt cold.
“The blue box?”
He hesitated.
That was enough.
“Where did you take it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“A locker!”
Marcus froze.
“What locker?”
“Union Station.”
“What number?”
The man looked at the brass key in Marcus’s hand.
May you like
Then whispered:
“317.”
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