Chapter 6 - Where Is Madison?Ethan tried to climb out of the hospital bed.
A winter highway accident.
Black ice.
A tractor-trailer.
One phone call at 2:13 in the morning.
That was the story I had lived with.
I had buried my wife believing random chance had stolen her from me.
Now Ethan was telling me otherwise.
I drove toward Westerville while snow blurred the windshield.
Police had asked me to remain available for a formal statement, but no one had stopped me from leaving.
Leonard, Vanessa, and Cole had been detained for questioning.
Not arrested.
Not yet.
Ryan had turned over his footage.
Ethan was headed to the hospital.
Madison’s location was being checked by Cincinnati police.
I should have gone with my son.
Instead I followed the clue he had given me.
The old townhouse stood dark between two identical brick units.
Ethan had rented it for several years, but the last tenant moved out in October.
I knew the garage code.
Inside, the air smelled stale.
No furniture.
No decorations.
Nothing that suggested secrets.
The bedroom closet was empty.
I ran my hand along the back wall.
Nothing.
Then I noticed four screws holding a narrow wooden panel in place.
I found a screwdriver in the kitchen drawer.
Behind the panel sat a small black safe.
Four-digit keypad.
I tried Ethan’s birthday.
Wrong.
Madison’s.
Wrong.
Laura’s.
The light turned green.
The door opened.
Inside were three flash drives.
A stack of financial documents.
Two burner phones.
And a sealed envelope.
On the front, Ethan had written:
DAD — IF I CAN’T TELL YOU MYSELF, START HERE.
My hands shook as I opened it.
The letter inside was dated December 18.
Dad,
If you’re reading this, something happened before I could explain.
I’m sorry.
I should have told you months ago, but I kept hoping I was wrong.
Vanessa’s family didn’t enter our lives by accident.
They knew Mom.
Specifically, Leonard knew her.
I sat on the bare bedroom floor.
The words blurred.
I forced myself to continue.
Mom was consulting for Crowe Development before she died.
I never knew because she used her maiden name professionally for certain contracts.
She discovered accounting irregularities tied to one of Leonard’s earliest developments.
I found emails between her and Leonard.
She threatened to report him.
Three days later, she died.
My chest tightened.
No.
I read faster.
I am not saying Leonard caused the crash. I don’t have proof.
But Vanessa has documents she should not have.
Mom’s old reports.
Photos.
Copies of correspondence that were never in our house.
And one recording.
Dad, there’s a voicemail Mom left for someone the night she died.
She sounds scared.
She names Leonard.
I stopped breathing.
The room seemed to tilt.
A voicemail?
I searched the safe.
One burner phone was labeled LAURA.
I turned it on.
Battery: 41%.
There was one audio file.
I pressed play.
Static.
Then my wife’s voice filled the empty townhouse.
Nine years disappeared in one second.
“Ethan, sweetheart, I know you’re probably asleep.”
I shut my eyes.
Laura.
Warm.
Steady.
Alive.
“If your dad asks, tell him I’m running late. I’m meeting Leonard Crowe one last time.”
I opened my eyes.
Her voice continued.
“I don’t trust him anymore.”
My pulse roared.
“He knows I copied the invoices. He keeps saying we can settle this privately, but I’ve decided I’m going to the authorities tomorrow.”
A pause.
Then Laura’s voice became quieter.
“If anything strange happens tonight, don’t let anyone tell you I was confused.”
The recording ended.
I stared at the phone.
Laura had called Ethan.
Why had we never heard this?
Then I remembered.
Ethan had been twenty-six.
Working night shifts.
He had lost that phone during the week of the funeral.
Or thought he had.
Someone had returned it months later after finding it in a parking garage.
The voicemail had been deleted.
So how did Ethan have it now?
I opened his letter again.
The voicemail was recovered from a backup Vanessa had access to.
I think she kept it because Leonard did.
I don’t know why.
Maybe insurance.
Maybe leverage.
Whatever the reason, Dad, Mom was afraid of him.
The bedroom suddenly felt too small.
My phone rang.
Hospital.
“Mr. Hale?”
“Yes.”
“This is Riverside Methodist. Your son asked us to contact you.”
“Is he okay?”
“He has a fractured patella, two cracked ribs, dehydration, and several soft tissue injuries, but he’s stable.”
I closed my eyes.
“Thank you.”
“He’s asking for you.”
“I’m coming.”
Before hanging up, I asked, “Has anyone else tried to visit him?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“A woman identifying herself as his wife.”
“Do not let Vanessa Crowe near him.”
“Security has already been notified.”
Good.
I gathered everything from the safe and carried it to my truck.
As I reached the garage, headlights swept across the windows.
A black SUV stopped outside.
My hand froze on the toolbox.
One door opened.
Then another.
Two men stepped out.
Neither was Cole.
They wore dark jackets.
No visible weapons.
One approached the front door.
I backed into the shadows.
The doorknob rattled.
Then a key entered the lock.
They had access.
I quietly crossed into the laundry room.
There was another exit through the garage, but opening it would make too much noise.
The front door opened.
“Check upstairs,” one man said.
They knew exactly where to go.
I pulled out my phone.
This time I had signal.
I dialed 911 but didn’t press call.
Not yet.
Footsteps moved upstairs.
A minute later, one man said, “Safe’s open.”
“Empty?”
“Yeah.”
A curse.
Then:
“Hale was here.”
My stomach tightened.
The second man said, “Call Leonard.”
My eyebrows rose.
Leonard was supposedly being questioned by police.
Apparently his reach extended farther than I hoped.
The first man made the call.
“Mr. Crowe? Someone beat us here.”
Pause.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“We’ll find him.”
I pressed call.
Whispered the address.
Then I slipped through the garage side door.
Snow muffled my steps.
I crossed behind neighboring units toward an alley.
My truck sat directly in front of the house.
Too exposed.
I kept walking.
Behind me, the garage door opened.
“There!”
I ran.
At sixty-eight, running through six inches of snow was not elegant.
But fear is an excellent trainer.
I reached the next street.
A pickup approached.
I stepped into the road and waved both arms.
The driver stopped.
A middle-aged woman rolled down the window.
“Are you crazy?”
“Call the police.”
Then tires screeched behind me.
The black SUV turned the corner.
The woman looked at it.
Then at me.
“Get in.”
I climbed into the passenger seat.
She slammed the accelerator.
The SUV followed.
“You know those guys?” she asked.
“Unfortunately.”
She grinned.
“Seat belt.”
“What?”
“I used to race dirt tracks.”
That was how I met Gloria Mitchell, fifty-nine, grandmother of six, owner of a landscaping company, and apparently the most fearless stranger in Ohio.
She drove like winter had personally offended her.
We turned left.
Then right.
The SUV stayed behind us.
“Police are coming,” I said.
“Good.”
She swung into a supermarket parking lot.
The SUV followed.
Then blue lights appeared from the opposite entrance.
The black vehicle stopped.
Reversed.
An officer blocked the exit.
Another cruiser arrived.
Two minutes later, the men were lying face-down in snow while officers searched them.
One carried lock picks.
The other had a pistol.
Registered.
But still interesting.
I gave police the safe documents.
Not all of them.
I kept Laura’s recording.
That one went directly to the detective assigned to Ethan.
By 2:30 a.m., I reached the hospital.
Ethan was awake.
His leg was immobilized.
His face looked exhausted.
I sat beside him.
“I found the safe.”
His eyes closed with relief.
“You heard Mom?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Finding it.”
I took his hand.
“You didn’t cause any of this.”
He looked toward the window.
“Dad, there’s more.”
“How much more?”
“Vanessa has been collecting leverage against Leonard for years.”
“Why?”
“She hates him.”
That surprised me.
“Then why help him?”
“Because she wants his company.”
Pieces began moving.
Not a loyal daughter.
A rival.
“She planned to use your trust to save Crowe Development,” Ethan said. “Then expose her father and take control.”
“And you?”
“I was supposed to be collateral damage.”
I leaned back.
Ethan looked at me.
“Dad, Vanessa isn’t protecting Leonard.”
“What is she doing?”
“Replacing him.”
The hospital room door opened.
A detective stepped inside.
“Mr. Hale?”
“Yes.”
He closed the door.
“We located Madison.”
My stomach dropped.
“Is she safe?”
He hesitated.
“She’s alive.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No.”
He looked at Ethan.
“Your daughter was not at the Cincinnati address.”
Ethan gripped the blanket.
“Where is she?”
“We don’t know.”
May you like
And for the first time that night, I saw something worse than fear in my son’s eyes.
I saw panic.
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