Chapter 4: The Face on the Screen
The footage was grainy but clear enough.
The hotel's security office was a small room behind the front desk — two monitors, a rolling chair, a smell of old coffee.
Raines stood in front of the screen.
I stood beside him.
The manager hovered near the door like he wasn't sure whether to stay or go.
"Play it again," Raines said.
The timestamp read 6:47 PM.
The service corridor was narrow, lit by a single overhead strip.
The man walked into frame from the left.
He was tall, dark-haired, wearing the hotel's white uniform shirt.
He moved without hurrying.
At the far end of the corridor, just before the exit, he stopped.
He turned around.
He looked directly into the camera.
Then he walked out.
"Freeze it there," Raines said.
The image locked.
The man's face filled a quarter of the screen — slightly blurred, slightly overexposed from the exit light behind him.
But recognizable.
My hand went to my mouth.
"Mrs.
Calloway." Raines turned to look at me.
"Do you know this man?"
I couldn't speak for a moment.
"That's not Daniel," I finally said.
"I didn't ask if it was your husband."
I stared at the frozen frame.
The jaw.
The way he held his shoulders.
The slight tilt of his head, like he was waiting for something.
"His name is Marcus Teel," I said.
"He was Daniel's closest friend.
They worked together for six years." I lowered my hand.
"I haven't seen him since Daniel disappeared.
He stopped returning my calls after the first month.
I assumed he'd cut contact because—" I stopped.
"Because why?"
"Because I thought he blamed himself.
For not seeing the signs." I looked at Raines.
"But that's not why, is it."
It wasn't a question.
Raines turned back to the screen.
"What do you know about what your husband found at work?"
"Almost nothing.
He was careful.
He said the less I knew, the safer I was." My voice came out harder than I intended.
"I respected that.
I wish I hadn't."
"Did he ever mention a company name?
A person?
A shipment?"
"He mentioned a name once.
He said it in his sleep, actually.
I wrote it down because it seemed important." I looked at the man on the screen.
"Harlen Group."
The manager made a small sound near the door.
Both Raines and I turned.
The manager's face had gone the same color as the chef's had in the dining room.
"You know that name," Raines said.
The manager's mouth opened.
Closed.
"Sir." Raines's voice dropped to something very flat and very still.
"I need you to sit down."
The manager didn't sit.
He took one step backward instead.
Then his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
His hand was shaking.
"Don't answer that," Raines said.
The manager answered it anyway.
He listened for four seconds.
His eyes moved to me.
Then he lowered the phone slowly, like it had become very heavy.
"They said to tell you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "that the boy is only safe as long as you stop asking questions."
The monitor behind us flickered.
When I looked back at the screen, the frozen image of Marcus Teel was gone.
The footage had been wiped.
May you like
Every second of it.
In real time, while we stood there watching.
