Chapter 8: His Voice
I took the phone to the hotel room.
Raines waited outside the door.
I didn't ask him to.
He simply stayed.
Oliver was still asleep, turned onto his side now, one arm stretched toward the empty half of the bed.
I sat in the chair by the window.
The city outside was dark and wet, the streetlights making long reflections on the pavement below.
I dialed the only number saved in the phone.
It rang once.
"Sara."
Three years.
His voice was the same.
Slightly lower, maybe.
Quieter.
But the same.
I didn't say anything for a moment.
"Are you there?" he said.
"I'm here." My voice came out steadier than I expected.
"You have about thirty seconds before I start crying, so talk fast."
A sound on his end.
Something between a breath and a laugh, broken at the edges.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I know.
Marcus told me."
"I should have found another way."
"Yes.
You should have." I pressed my hand flat against my knee.
"But you didn't, and Oliver and I are still here, so tell me what happens next."
He told me.
The full case — everything he'd built over three years — was stored across three encrypted drives.
One was with a journalist in Vancouver who had been sitting on the story, waiting for the evidence to be complete.
One was with a former federal prosecutor Daniel had located and vetted over eighteen months.
The third was with Marcus.
"The journalist goes first," Daniel said.
"Once the story is public, Harlen Group loses the ability to operate quietly.
The federal case follows.
By the time anyone thinks about coming after you or Oliver, there will be too much scrutiny."
"And the man inside Portland law enforcement?"
"His name is Deputy Chief Warren Lyle." Daniel's voice went flat.
"He's been on Harlen Group's payroll for at least four years.
He's the one who told them about me.
He's named in the federal evidence package."
I looked at Oliver sleeping.
"Daniel." I kept my voice very low.
"Oliver asked me tonight if you were involved in this.
He's eight years old and he figured out that much on his own."
Silence on the line.
"He's like you," Daniel said finally.
"He sees things."
"He misses his father."
Another silence.
Longer.
"I know." His voice was rough now.
"Sara, I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer honestly."
"When have I ever not?"
"Do you want me to come back?
After this is over?" A pause.
"I know I don't have the right to assume—"
"Daniel." I stopped him.
"Come home."
He exhaled.
The sound of it traveled through three years of distance and landed in the quiet hotel room like something being set down after a very long time of carrying it.
"The journalist publishes in forty-eight hours," he said.
"Stay in Seattle until then.
Don't go back to Portland until I tell you it's clear."
"Carol is at the federal field office right now with the camping box."
A beat of silence.
"You found it."
"She found it.
I forgot about it." I paused.
"She's better in a crisis than I am."
"She always was." I could hear the smile in it.
"Tell her thank you."
"Tell her yourself.
In two days."
"In two days," he said.
We stayed on the line for another minute without speaking.
It wasn't uncomfortable.
It felt like something that had been held open for three years finally resting in its frame.
"Oliver's okay?" he said.
"He's asleep.
He's fine." I looked at my son.
"He's been brave."
"He gets that from you."
I didn't answer that.
I didn't need to.
"Two days," I said.
"Two days," Daniel said.
I ended the call and sat in the chair by the window for a long time.
The city moved below me, indifferent and ordinary and lit up in the rain.
May you like
I watched it until my breathing slowed all the way down.
Then I went and lay down beside Oliver and put my hand on his back and closed my eyes.
