Chapter 8 - A Letter From a Dead Man

We drove to the prison the next morning. Katherine had been told her father's death was a medical emergency. The staff refused to release details, but they handed her a sealed envelope that David had left with the chaplain months earlier.

Inside was a letter addressed to me.

Elena, if you're reading this, the photograph reached you. I'm sorry I failed your mother. I was afraid, and my fear cost more lives than I can count. Your mother discovered hidden payments to people who arranged illegal labor transfers. She copied the ledgers. But the worst secret was a little boy named Mateo. Don't trust anyone who tells you he was adopted. Find the blue room. Ask why the elevator was removed from the plans.

The last line made my hands shake.

Sofia loved you. Whatever you've been told, she did not choose to leave you.

Katherine turned toward the window, trying not to cry in front of me. I gave her the letter and waited. She read it once, then again.

"He knew he was going to die," she whispered.

"Maybe he knew he was sick."

"Maybe. But someone should've let me see him."

We took the letter to a forensic document specialist Katherine trusted. He would examine the ink, paper, and handwriting. I was learning that wanting something to be true and proving it were two different kinds of work.

That evening, Ben called with news. Bellwether had announced a sudden inventory liquidation. Truckloads of old files, damaged equipment, and archived merchandise were being sent to a regional incineration facility before dawn Monday.

"They know we're looking," I said.

"Then we move through the courts," Ben replied. "Katherine's filing for emergency preservation."

"Courts don't always move fast."

"Neither does a loaded semi when fifty workers stand in front of the gate."

He wasn't threatening violence. He was organizing a lawful picket, with cameras and press witnesses. After years of hearing workers complain in whispers, seeing them stand together sounded almost impossible.

At 11:43 p.m., an encrypted email reached Katherine. It contained three photographs: the blue door, the old freight elevator, and a narrow room full of filing cabinets.

The sender had written: THE MATERIAL IS STILL HERE. THE TRANSFER STARTS AT FIVE.

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Then a second email arrived, addressed only to me.

ELENA, THIS IS MARCUS. I KNOW WHERE YOUR MOTHER WENT.