Chapter 3 - The Woman at Mile Marker 46
The police report said my mother's car went off State Route 46 on a rainy night. I had read it a hundred times. Single-vehicle accident. No witnesses. Fire damaged the wreckage. Identification confirmed through personal belongings and dental records.
At nine, I believed adults when they said a terrible thing had happened. At thirty-one, I knew adults could make terrible things happen.
The roadside memorial was still there: a wooden cross surrounded by wild grass. Ruth Mercer stood beside it, one hand gripping the post, the other holding a canvas tote bag. She was small and hunched, wearing a raincoat the color of faded yellow paint.
"Get in," I shouted through the passenger window.
She didn't move. Her gaze darted past my car.
A black pickup was approaching from the opposite direction.
I opened the passenger door. "Ruth!"
She finally ran. The pickup slowed. I hit the gas before Ruth had pulled her seat belt across her chest. The truck made a hard U-turn and followed.
"Who is that?"
"One of Graham's men. Maybe two. Keep your eyes on the road."
I took the next exit without signaling, wound through a neighborhood, and doubled back behind a strip mall. By the time we reached a crowded supermarket lot, the pickup was gone.
Ruth put both hands over her face. "I should've called you years ago."
"Then why didn't you?"
"Because I watched what happened to people who asked questions."
She opened the tote bag. Inside were two notebooks, a brass key, and a child's pink hair ribbon. The ribbon had a tiny stitched sunflower. Mine. Mom used to tie it at the end of my braid on school picture day.
My throat tightened. "Where did you get this?"
"Sofia gave me a box before she disappeared. She told me to protect it until you were old enough. I was a coward. I kept moving the box from place to place and telling myself you were better off not knowing."
"Disappeared? You mean died."
Ruth looked at me for a long moment. "I never saw a body, Elena. Neither did you."
She handed me the first notebook. Every page contained columns of shipping numbers, quantities, and handwritten names. On the inside cover, Mom had written: WHITCOMB IS USING THE WAREHOUSE TO MOVE PEOPLE, NOT JUST GOODS.
I stared at the words.
Ruth touched my wrist. "Your mother found a trafficking operation. When she threatened to report it, they made her vanish."
Before I could ask another question, a notification lit up my phone. It was an email from Bellwether Human Resources.
YOUR EMPLOYMENT HAS BEEN TERMINATED FOR THEFT AND VIOLENCE. LAW ENFORCEMENT HAS BEEN NOTIFIED.
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Attached was security footage of me attacking Graham Whitcomb.
Only I had never touched him.
