Chapter 9: Finding Carol
My paralegal colleague's name was Diane, and she had the particular gift of people who are very good at finding things: she never asked why you wanted to know.
She just asked what you already had.
I called her from the facility parking lot at nine-fifteen that night.
"Eleven years ago," I said.
"Portland, Oregon.
First name Carol.
Possibly two daughters.
She may have moved, possibly changed her name.
I have one letter in her handwriting."
"Return address on the letter?"
"Yes.
But it's eleven years old."
"That's fine.
Give it to me."
I read it out.
She wrote it down without comment.
"What's the connection?" she asked.
"She was involved with someone who is currently threatening my family.
I need to know she's safe.
And I need to know if she ever pursued any legal action."
A pause.
"This person — is he a danger to you right now?"
"He showed up today.
He left.
He'll be back."
"Then you should also be talking to someone who isn't me."
"I know.
I'm doing both."
"Good." I could hear her writing.
"Give me forty-eight hours."
I sat in the car for a few minutes after I hung up.
The facility behind me was lit warmly — windows glowing, the entrance sign casting a soft light over the empty visitor spaces.
Somewhere inside, my stepmom was sleeping in the room she'd chosen because Daniel had suggested it, in the facility she'd stayed in because leaving felt like defeat, surrounded by envelopes she'd addressed every month for two years with hands that never stopped shaking, though she'd never once let me see that.
I started the car and drove home.
The next morning, I called a family attorney named Robert Hale.
He'd handled my father's estate — quiet, methodical, the kind of man who read everything twice.
I explained the situation in order: the payments, the threats, Daniel's visit, Carol's letter, my father's letter.
He listened without interrupting.
"The payments your stepmom made," he said when I finished.
"Were any of them documented?
Bank transfers, receipts, anything with his name attached?"
"The envelopes.
She kept them all."
"Unopened?"
"Yes."
"That's actually useful.
It establishes a pattern and a timeline.
If he made threats — verbal or written — and she made payments in response, that's potentially extortion." He paused.
"Did he put anything in writing?
Texts, emails?"
"He texted her yesterday.
I read it.
It said he was already in town and to not make things difficult."
"Screenshot that and send it to me today." His voice was calm and precise.
"Don't delete anything.
Don't respond to him.
If he contacts either of you again, you tell me before you say a word to him."
"He's going to come back to the facility."
"Then the facility needs to know.
Today.
I can draft a letter to their director if you'd like — formally requesting that he be denied access as a non-approved visitor."
"Yes.
Do that."
"I'll also want to look at whether there's a case in Oregon.
If this Carol filed a police report eleven years ago, there may be a record.
If he was investigated and it went nowhere, that's one thing.
If he was never properly investigated, that's another."
"My colleague is already trying to locate her."
"Good.
If you find her and she's willing to talk, that changes the picture significantly." He paused again.
"I want to be honest with you.
What you've described is serious, but building a case takes time.
In the meantime, your priority is your stepmom's safety."
"I know."
"She shouldn't be alone there."
"I'm going back this afternoon."
"Good." A brief pause.
"Your father was a careful man.
The letter he left — that's the kind of thing that holds up.
Keep it safe."
I thanked him and hung up.
May you like
Diane called back in thirty-six hours, not forty-eight.
"I found her," she said.
