“Daniel hasn’t been here since Monday,” Rachel said.

“Was he expected to travel?” Ortiz asked.

Rachel looked at me.

“He told us he was working remotely.”

“From Chicago?” I asked.

She shook her head.

Daniel’s private office was locked. Rachel used a master key after Ortiz explained that Daniel might be missing.

The room looked ordinary at first.

Laptop dock.

Coffee mug.

Framed photograph from our wedding.

A stack of client folders.

Then Ortiz opened the lower drawer of Daniel’s desk.

Inside were old newspaper clippings.

Dozens of them.

MISSING TEACHER LAST SEEN NEAR GETTYSBURG.

SECOND WOMAN VANISHES ALONG ROUTE 30.

INVESTIGATORS DENY CONNECTION BETWEEN CASES.

Several articles contained photographs of my father leaving county buildings or speaking beside police vehicles.

There were handwritten notes in Daniel’s narrow block lettering.

TIMING BETWEEN FLOWERS AND DISAPPEARANCE: 48–72 HOURS.

SAME FLORIST SUPPLY CHAIN?

T.M. SUSPECTED SOMEONE INSIDE INVESTIGATION.

I picked up the last sheet.

Across the top, Daniel had written my father’s name.

Below it was a list of dates, addresses and vehicle registrations.

“Why would he have this?” I asked.

Ortiz did not touch the papers.

“Did Daniel ever tell you he was looking into your father’s old cases?”

“No.”

“Did he know about the flowers?”

“I never told him.”

That was not completely true.

Years earlier, after too much wine at our anniversary dinner, I had told Daniel that my father once frightened me with a story about red marks. I had not mentioned yellow roses or missing women because I had not known those details.

Daniel had asked what my father meant.

I told him I had no idea.

He had gone quiet for a few seconds, then changed the subject.

Ortiz asked Rachel for building security footage and took Daniel’s laptop as evidence.

As we prepared to leave, I noticed a folded paper beneath the framed wedding photograph.

It was a photocopy of an old personnel roster from my father’s department.

One name had been circled three times.

Amos Bell.

I knew the name.

Amos had attended my father’s funeral.

He had stood beside the grave in a dark blue overcoat and told me that my father had been the best investigator he had ever worked with. He had even carried one of the flower arrangements to my car afterward.

I showed the page to Ortiz.

Her expression tightened.

“Amos Bell was questioned during the original investigation,” she said.

“Was he a suspect?”

“Officially, no.”

“Unofficially?”

She folded the copy into an evidence sleeve.

“Your father kept asking questions about him after the task force closed the cases.”

Rachel returned with Daniel’s office phone records.

Ortiz scanned the list.

The last outgoing call Daniel made before disappearing had lasted four minutes and eighteen seconds.

It was placed to a number registered to Amos Bell.

I called Amos before Ortiz could stop me.

The line rang once.

Then a man answered.

“Amber.”

He did not ask who was calling.

I gripped the phone.

“Where is Daniel?”

For several seconds, Amos said nothing.

Then I heard a faint sound behind him.

A metal scrape.

A sharp breath.

And Daniel’s voice, weak but unmistakable.

“Amber, don’t—”

The call ended.

Detective Ortiz took the phone from my hand and immediately began issuing instructions to the officers around her.

I stood beside Daniel’s desk, staring at the photograph from our wedding.

Behind the glass, Daniel had hidden a small brass key.

Taped beneath it was a note written in my father’s handwriting.

AMBER—IF DANIEL FOUND THIS, HE KNOWS WHO AMOS REALLY IS.

The Key My Father Left Behind

Detective Ortiz carefully peeled the tape from the back of our wedding photograph.

The brass key was no bigger than my thumb.

“Do you know what it opens?” she asked.

I shook my head.

Then I remembered something.

After my father died, I had rented a small storage unit outside Lancaster because I couldn’t bear to throw away his old case files. I hadn’t opened it in years.

The key fit the padlock perfectly.

Inside, dust covered shelves stacked with cardboard boxes. Most were labeled with old case numbers, but one metal filing cabinet stood alone in the corner.

The brass key unlocked only the bottom drawer.

There was a single folder inside.

Across the front, in my father’s handwriting, were four words.

AMOS BELL — DO NOT CLOSE.

Ortiz silently opened the folder.

Instead of police reports, it contained my father’s personal notes.