Chapter 7: Thursday
Dana slept in our guest room for three nights before Thursday came.
Those three days had their own strange rhythm.
Liam made dinner every evening without being asked, setting three places at the table, keeping the conversation light when it needed to be light and quiet when it needed to be quiet.
I watched him with my sister and understood, for the first time, what those eight months of carrying her secret had actually cost him — the careful way he'd managed both of us, the tightrope he'd walked without ever letting me see the rope.
I told him that on Wednesday night, after Dana had gone to bed.
"I'm not angry at you," I said.
"I want you to know that."
He was washing dishes.
He didn't turn around right away.
"You have every right to be."
"Maybe.
But I'm not." I leaned against the counter beside him.
"You were trying to protect her and protect me at the same time.
That's an impossible position."
"I should have pushed harder.
Made her tell you sooner."
"Probably." I handed him a dish towel.
"But you didn't do it out of cruelty.
That matters."
He looked at me.
Something in his face eased, very slightly, like a door settling back into its frame.
"I hated lying to you," he said.
"Even by omission.
Every single day."
"I know." I took the dish towel back.
"Don't do it again."
"Never," he said.
And he meant it.
Thursday morning, I drove Dana to Fitch's office.
She sat in the passenger seat with her hands in her lap, looking out the window at the city moving past.
"Are you ready?" I asked.
"No," she said.
"But I'm going anyway."
Fitch met us in the lobby and walked us up to a conference room on the fourth floor.
Two investigators were already there — a man named Carver and a woman named Reyes, both in plain clothes, both with the particular stillness of people who listen for a living.
I sat against the wall while they talked to Dana.
Fitch had said I could stay as long as I didn't speak, and I didn't.
I just watched.
Dana was better than I expected.
She was nervous — her hands moved too much, and twice she lost her train of thought and had to go back — but she was clear.
She answered what they asked.
She didn't embellish.
When she didn't know something, she said so.
Carver showed her a photograph.
"Do you recognize this man?"
Dana looked at it for a long time.
"That's him," she said.
"That's Marcus."
"You're certain?"
"Yes."
Reyes leaned forward slightly.
"Ms.
Dana, the text you received on Monday morning.
We've traced the number.
It was a prepaid phone, purchased with cash, but the cell tower it pinged from puts it less than half a mile from your home."
Dana's hands went still.
"He was close," she said.
"Yes." Reyes's voice was even.
"We believe he's been monitoring your movements.
Possibly for longer than three weeks."
I kept my face neutral.
My hands, out of sight under the table, pressed flat against my thighs.
"What does that mean for her safety?" I asked.
Fitch shot me a look.
I looked back at him calmly.
He let it go.
Reyes turned to me.
"It means we're treating this as active.
We have a team working on locating him.
In the meantime, we'd like Ms.
Dana to avoid her home address and vary her routine." She paused.
"She should not be alone."
"She's staying with us," I said.
"Good."
The interview ran another forty minutes.
When it was over, Fitch walked us back to the lobby.
In the elevator, Dana leaned against the wall and let out a long, slow breath.
"You did well," Fitch said.
"I felt like I was going to be sick the whole time," she said.
"Most people do." He almost smiled.
"That's how I know they're telling the truth."
Outside, in the car, Dana sat quietly for a moment before she put on her seatbelt.
"Reyes said he's been watching me for weeks," she said.
"Maybe longer."
"I know."
"And I had no idea." She turned to look at me.
"What kind of person does that?"
"The kind who's scared," I said.
"The kind who knows his time is running out."
She nodded slowly.
She looked out the windshield.
"Ellen," she said.
"What if they don't find him in time?"
I started the car.
"They'll find him."
"But what if—"
"Dana." I looked at her.
"He made a mistake when he sent that text.
He showed them where he was.
People who are careful don't make mistakes like that." I pulled out of the parking space.
"He's running.
And he's running scared.
That means he's going to make another one."
She didn't answer.
But she put her seatbelt on.
We were three blocks from Fitch's office when my phone rang through the car speakers.
The screen read: FITCH.
I answered.
"We just left."
"I know." His voice was different.
Tighter.
"Turn around.
Both of you.
Come back up."
"What happened?"
A pause.
One beat too long.
"They found his car," Fitch said.
"Parked two streets from your house, Ellen.
May you like
Not Dana's.
Yours."
