Part17
\nThe newspaper clipping remained on my dining room table long after the sun came up.
\nI stared at the woman standing beside Helmut Schneider.
\nShe looked no older than thirty.
\nDark hair.
\nSharp eyes.
\nOne hand resting on a thick folder as reporters crowded around the courthouse steps.
\nAcross the bottom of the photograph someone had written:
\nFind Eleanor Richter.
\nLila arrived just after breakfast carrying two coffees.
\n“I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted.
\n“Neither could I.”
\nShe looked at the clipping.
\n“Do you think she’s still alive?”
\n“I don’t know.”
\n“But someone wanted us to find her.”
\nWe spent the morning searching every public record we could access.
\nThe first result appeared within minutes.
\nEleanor Richter.
\nDate of birth: April 3, 1964.
\nDate of death: September 18, 2012.
\nLila frowned.
\n“She’s dead?”
\nAccording to the records…
\nYes.
\nCause of death.
\nHeart failure.
\nPlace of burial.
\nRosewood Memorial Cemetery.
\nThe mystery should have ended there.
\nInstead, it became stranger.
\nBecause attached to the record was a scanned obituary.
\nIt contained only three names.
\nNo husband.
\nNo children.
\nNo surviving relatives.
\nAlmost as though she had lived completely alone.
\nSomething about it felt wrong.
\nPeople leave traces.
\nNeighbors.
\nFriends.
\nCoworkers.
\nSomeone remembers them.
\nEleanor Richter seemed to disappear from history the moment she died.
\n…
\nThat afternoon we drove to Rosewood Memorial Cemetery.
\nThe caretaker greeted us kindly.
\n“I’m looking for Eleanor Richter,” I said.
\nHe checked an old computer behind the front desk.
\nThen his smile faded.
\n“That’s odd.”
\n“What is?”
\n“Her name is still in the system.”
\n“So?”
\n“There isn’t a grave.”
\nLila and I exchanged a glance.
\n“No grave?”
\n“No headstone.”
\n“No burial location.”
\nHe searched again.
\n“The paperwork says she was buried here.”
\n“But there’s no record of where.”
\n“Has that ever happened before?” I asked.
\nThe caretaker slowly shook his head.
\n“Not once in twenty-three years.”
\n…
\nAs we walked back toward the parking lot, Lila stopped suddenly.
\n“Aunt Nora.”
\nA black SUV sat across the street.
\nIts windows were too dark to see inside.
\nThe engine was running.
\nThe moment I looked directly at it, the vehicle pulled away without making a sound.
\nI memorized the first three characters on the license plate.
\n“That’s the second time,” Lila whispered.
\n“I know.”
\n“They’re following us.”
\n“No.”
\nI watched the SUV disappear around the corner.
\n“They’re making sure we keep looking.”
\n…
\nThat evening I received another package.
\nNo stamp.
\nNo return address.
\nInside was an old cassette tape.
\nNothing else.
\nI turned it over in my hands.
\nA label had been attached years earlier.
\nWritten in faded blue ink were six words.
\nWarehouse Interview.
\nMay 17, 1994.
\nLila looked at me.
\n“Should we play it?”
\nI nodded.
\nWe found an old cassette player in the storage room of my office.
\nThe tape crackled loudly before a man’s voice filled the room.
\n“This interview begins at 8:17 p.m.”
\nI froze.
\nThe pocket watch.
\nIts hands had stopped at exactly…
\n8:17.
\nAnother voice spoke.
\nCalm.
\nConfident.
\nOne I had never heard before.
\n“My name is Eleanor Richter.”
\nShe paused.
\n“If anything happens to me after tonight…”
\n“…it means Helmut Schneider finally discovered what I know.”
\nThe recording suddenly cut off.
\nThe tape kept spinning.
\nBut no more voices came.
\nLila stared at me.
\n“Aunt Nora…”
\nI slowly pressed the stop button.
\n“Eleanor didn’t disappear after 1994.”
\n“She was trying to warn someone.”
\nBefore either of us could say another word, my office lights went out.
\nThe entire building fell into darkness.
\nThen…
\nThree slow knocks echoed against the front door.<\/p>\n
Part18
\nThe three knocks echoed through the dark office.
\nNeither Lila nor I moved.
\nThe emergency lights flickered once before turning on.
\nA faint glow stretched across the hallway.
\nWhoever stood outside knocked again.
\nSlow.
\nPatient.
\nAlmost familiar.
\nI stepped closer to the door without making a sound.
\n“Who is it?” I asked.
\nNo answer.
\nOnly silence.
\nThen something slid beneath the door.
\nA single envelope.
\nBy the time I opened the door, the hallway was empty.
\nThe elevator doors were closing at the far end of the corridor.
\nI caught only the silhouette of someone wearing a dark coat before the doors shut.
\nLila hurried beside me.
\n“Did you see them?”
\n“Not clearly.”
\nWe looked inside the envelope.
\nThere was no letter.
\nOnly an old black-and-white photograph.
\nIt showed a warehouse.
\nSmoke poured from broken windows.
\nSeveral firefighters stood outside.
\nSomeone had circled a man near the back entrance.
\nNot Helmut.
\nNot Felix.
\nNot Max.
\nWritten across the bottom were four words.
\nHe started the fire.
\n…
\nI placed the photograph beside the newspaper clipping.
\nThe circled man appeared nowhere in the article.
\nAlmost as if someone had deliberately removed him from history.
\nLila looked at the back of the photograph.
\n“There are numbers.”
\nFaded pencil marks.
\nA17.
\nB42.
\nC8.
\n“What do you think they mean?”
\n“I don’t know.”
\n“But they’re not random.”
\nJust then Daniel Cross called.
\n“I’ve found something.”
\n“What?”
\n“Eleanor Richter wasn’t a reporter.”
\nI frowned.
\n“The tape sounded like an interview.”
\n“It was.”
\n“But she wasn’t interviewing anyone.”
\n“What was she?”
\nDaniel hesitated.
\n“She worked as a forensic accountant.”
\nThe room fell silent.
\n“She specialized in investigating financial fraud.”
\nI looked at the folders Felix had hidden.
\nSuddenly everything began fitting together.
\nWarehouse.
\nCompany records.
\nBank transfers.
\nMax.
\nHelmut.
\nThis had never been only about a fire.
\nIt was about money.
\nA lot of money.
\n…
\nThe following morning we visited the city archives.
\nBoxes of old business records filled an entire basement room.
\nHours passed before Lila suddenly called my name.
\n“Aunt Nora.”
\nShe held up a thick ledger.
\n“The warehouse inventory.”
\nMost of the pages listed ordinary shipments.
\nFurniture.
\nElectronics.
\nOffice equipment.
\nThen one page stopped me cold.
\nEverything after April 1994 had been covered with correction fluid.
\nSomeone had intentionally erased every entry.
\nLila carefully tilted the page beneath a reading lamp.
\nFaint writing slowly appeared beneath the white coating.
\nOnly one shipment remained readable.
\nDestination:
\nRichter Storage Facility.
\nSender:
\nSchneider Industrial Group.
\nDelivery Date:
\nMay 13, 1994.
\nExactly one day before the warehouse fire.
\n…
\nThat evening another unknown number called.
\nI answered immediately.
\n“You’ve made good progress,” the familiar voice said.
\n“Who are you?”
\n“You’ll know soon enough.”
\n“Why are you helping us?”
\nA long silence followed.
\nThen the caller quietly replied,
\n“Because Felix couldn’t finish what he started.”
\nBefore I could ask another question, the line went dead.
\nLila looked at me.
\n“I don’t think he’s our enemy.”
\n“No.”
\nI stared at the old warehouse photograph.
\n“I think he’s trying to keep us alive.”
\nAs I turned the picture over one more time, something slipped from behind the faded cardboard backing.
\nA tiny brass key.
\nSmaller than the one from Locker 214.
\nAttached to it was a paper tag with only one sentence.
\nEvidence Room 8….<\/p>\n
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