Detective Shaw returned just after sunrise.
The sky outside had turned pale gray, exposing the ordinary details of our street with almost insulting clarity. Mailboxes. Damp pavement. A child’s bicycle left on its side two houses down.
Nothing looked capable of containing what had happened overnight.
Shaw sat across from me at Mr. Peterson’s table.
“You need to go to the hospital.”
“I will after you tell me what you found.”
“That isn’t a negotiation.”
“I understand.”
“Good.”
She placed a small notebook on the table.
Not Dererick’s.
Her own.
“We located prescription medication and several controlled substances in a concealed storage area.”
“Which drugs?”
“Preliminary labels include sedatives and compounds commonly used for anesthesia and procedural sedation. We need laboratory confirmation before I tell you exactly what may have been administered.”
My hands tightened together.
“Could they cause memory loss?”
“Some can.”
“Confusion?”
“Yes.”
“Long unconscious periods?”
“Yes.”
“Could they kill someone?”
Shaw did not soften the answer.
“Yes.”
I looked toward the window.
My house stood across the street.
The bedroom curtain was still slightly open.
I could see the corner where Dererick’s side of the bed would be.
For years I had thought danger meant something entering a home.
A broken window.
A stranger at the door.
A shadow outside.
It had never occurred to me that danger could make tea.
“What about the identification cards?”
Shaw turned one page.
“Five driver’s licenses.”
“Five?”
“Yes.”
“How many women?”
“Five different women.”
“Were they in the folders?”
“We’ve confirmed two names so far.”
“Which?”
“Jennifer Collins and Patricia Webb.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“What happened to them?”
Shaw held my gaze.
“Jennifer Collins was reported missing eighteen months ago.”
The words seemed impossible.
“But the photographs…”
“What about them?”
“They continued after that.”
Shaw became very still.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How sure?”
“I saw dates in her folder. Some were less than a year old.”
Shaw wrote quickly.
“Could metadata have been altered?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could the date labels have been something other than capture dates?”
“Maybe. But Dererick organized everything by month.”
She nodded.
“If you’re right, those files may show Jennifer alive after her disappearance report.”
A strange relief moved through me.
Then disappeared.
“Or they could show when she died.”
Shaw did not answer.
“Patricia?” I asked.
“She has not officially been reported missing.”
“Then where is she?”
“We’re working on that.”
“And Michelle?”
“One of the licenses belongs to a Michelle Harper.”
“That’s her.”
“You recognize the photograph?”
“Yes.”
Shaw turned the notebook toward herself.
“Michelle Harper’s status is not clear yet.”
“What does that mean?”
“We’re locating family.”
My frustration rose.
“There were five licenses. Who are the others?”
“One is a woman named Renee Caldwell. The other is Laura Bennett.”
“Were their folders on the laptop?”
“I didn’t see those names.”
“Doesn’t mean they weren’t there.”
“I know.”
Shaw studied me.
“How long were you on the computer?”
“Maybe forty minutes.”
“You remember the structure well?”
“I design things for a living. Layouts stick in my head.”
“Could you reproduce what you saw?”
“Probably.”
She slid her notebook toward me.
“Draw it.”
I sketched the folder hierarchy as well as I could remember it.
ARCHIVE.
Years.
Months.
Names.
Client communications.
Current.
I marked where my folder appeared relative to the others.
Shaw watched closely.
When I finished, she asked, “Was there anything labeled storage?”
“No.”
“Transfer?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Graduation?”
“Only in messages.”
“Exact phrase?”
“Graduation Services. And Graduation candidate.”
“Capitalized?”
“I think so.”
Shaw wrote it down.
“What do you think it means?” I asked.
“I’m not going to guess.”
“But you have a theory.”
“I have several.”
“Tell me one.”
“No.”
Her refusal angered me, but I understood it.
A theory from a detective would become fact in my frightened brain.
She knew that.
Price entered from the hallway.
He handed Shaw a page.
She read it.
Her expression barely changed, but her eyes sharpened.
“What?”
She glanced at Price.
Then at me.
“We located Patricia Webb.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
Relief came so abruptly that I nearly cried.
“Where?”
“About two hundred miles away.”
“Does she know Dererick?”
“We haven’t spoken to her yet.”
“Then how do you know she’s okay?”
“Recent employment records and a verified address.”
I exhaled.
One alive.
One confirmed.
That mattered.
“Can you contact her now?”
“Another agency is handling that.”
“What about Jennifer?”
Price answered this time.
“Her case is active.”
“Where did she disappear?”
He looked at Shaw before responding.
“From a hotel near the airport.”
A chill moved over my skin.
“Which airport?”
“The same one your husband uses for work travel.”
My mouth went dry.
“When?”
“Eighteen months ago.”
“What did police think happened?”
“She left the hotel unexpectedly. Personal belongings remained behind.”
“Was she alone?”
“According to the report.”
“Camera footage?”
“Limited.”
“That means what?”
“Some areas covered, some weren’t.”
“Did anyone see Dererick?”
Price shook his head.
“We don’t know yet.”
I remembered the messages on the laptop.
Customers.
Appointments.
Payments.
“What if Jennifer wasn’t a customer?”
Shaw looked at me.
“What do you mean?”
“What if she was like me?”
“A victim.”
“Yes.”
“That is one possibility.”
“Then why would her driver’s license be hidden in our bedroom?”
“That’s something we’re trying to establish.”
I leaned back.
The kitchen chair felt suddenly hard beneath me.
“Did you find passports?”
“No.”
“Credit cards?”
“Not in that compartment.”
“Jewelry?”
“No.”
“Any blood?”
“Anna.”
“Did you?”
“Nothing obvious.”
The wording did not comfort me.
Nothing obvious.
“What about the notebook?”
“We recovered it.”
“You saw the entries?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“It is significant evidence.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we are treating your allegations seriously.”
“Were you not before?”
Shaw’s expression softened slightly.
“We were. Now we have corroborating physical evidence.”
I looked toward Mr. Peterson, who had been standing near the kitchen doorway.
He had barely spoken since the detectives returned.
His face looked older in daylight.
“Can I ask something?” he said.
Shaw nodded.
“That white van I saw. Does that plate help?”
“It may.”
“May?”
“Partial plates generate possibilities, not answers.”
He looked dissatisfied.
Shaw added, “But the date helps.”
That reminded me of something.
“The bright light.”
Everyone looked at me.
“Mr. Peterson said the bedroom looked bright that night.”
“Yes.”
“I saw equipment on Dererick’s laptop. He photographed me. Maybe there’s video from that night.”
Shaw wrote again.
“Possibly.”
“Can you access the laptop?”
“We secured it.”
“So open it.”
“We will.”
“Now?”
She gave me a level look.
“Digital evidence is handled carefully.”
“Because of court.”
“Among other reasons.”
I hated how slowly justice moved compared with fear.
Dererick could drive home in an hour.
Evidence required forms.
Authorizations.
Imaging.
Documentation.
Shaw seemed to read the thought.
“We have a bulletin out on his vehicle.”
“Can you arrest him?”
“We need probable cause for specific offenses.”
“You found sedatives hidden in our wall.”
“Yes.”
“You found missing women’s IDs.”
“Yes.”
“You saw the notebook.”
“Yes.”
“And that isn’t enough?”
“I did not say that.”
I went quiet.
“What happens if they find him?”
“We’ll deal with that when they do.”
My phone, now in an evidence sleeve because detectives wanted to preserve the messages, vibrated on the table.
Everyone looked at it.
Another message from Dererick.
Shaw put on gloves and turned the screen so we could read it.
I know Peterson talked.
Mr. Peterson’s face drained of color.
The next message arrived immediately.
He always watches too much.
Then another.
Ask him what happened on April 14.
Mr. Peterson stared at the screen.
Shaw looked at him.
“What happened April fourteenth?”
“I don’t know.”
“You wrote something on the calendar?”
He stood abruptly and pulled it from the counter.
Pages flipped.
April.
His finger stopped.
The square was blank.
“I wrote nothing.”
“Think.”
“I’m thinking.”
His face changed.
He sat down slowly.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“There was an ambulance.”
My chest tightened.
“Where?”
“Your house.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I would remember an ambulance.”
“You weren’t there.”
“What?”
“It came in the afternoon.”
“When Dererick was home?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I assumed somebody got sick.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Shaw leaned forward.
“Describe exactly what you saw.”
Mr. Peterson swallowed.
“Ambulance came around three. No siren. Two paramedics went inside.”
“Uniformed?”
“Yes.”
“Marked ambulance?”
“I thought so.”
“What agency?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long were they inside?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes.”
“Did they remove anyone?”
“Yes.”
My throat closed.
“Who?”
“A woman.”
“What woman?”
“I couldn’t see her face.”
“Conscious?”
Mr. Peterson looked at me with horror.
“No.”
The kitchen went completely still.
“Stretcher?” Shaw asked.
“Yes.”
“Covered?”
“Blanket up to her shoulders.”
“Dererick accompany them?”
“No.”
“What did he do?”
“Stood in the doorway.”
I could hear the refrigerator compressor humming.
“What time did I get home that day?” I asked.
Mr. Peterson rubbed both hands over his face.
“I don’t know.”
I remembered April.
Barely.
There had been a week when Dererick insisted we have the carpets professionally cleaned.
He had told me to work from Clare’s apartment because of chemical fumes.
I had stayed away almost the entire day.
When I returned, the house smelled aggressively clean.
“What was she wearing?” I asked.
Mr. Peterson thought.
“Light-colored sweater.”
Hair?
“Dark.”
Age?
“I couldn’t tell.”
Detective Price was already on his phone.
Shaw asked, “Was the ambulance number visible?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Logo?”
“Blue maybe.”
“Anything written?”
“I’m sorry.”
Dererick’s next message appeared.
He remembers her.
I felt cold from scalp to feet.
Who was she?
Another message came.
You should ask why he didn’t call the police then.
Mr. Peterson stood.
“That son of a bitch.”
“Sit down,” Shaw said.
“He’s trying to make this my fault.”
“Sit down.”
Mr. Peterson obeyed.
His hands shook.
“I thought it was real. It looked real.”
Shaw’s voice remained controlled.
“That may have been the point.”
A final message arrived.
Anna, come home alone and I’ll explain everything.
Shaw read it aloud.
Then she looked at me.
“You are not responding.”
“I know.”
But as I stared at those words, another realization took shape.
Dererick had not simply monitored me.
He had anticipated discovery.
He knew what Mr. Peterson had witnessed.
He knew which date mattered.
And he was confident enough to keep communicating.
That meant he still believed he controlled something we did not understand.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: The Fake Ambulance Led Detectives to a Building Outside Town, Where Dererick’s Private Records Revealed What “Graduation” Really Meant
The Night I Poured Out My Husband’s Tea and Waited to Learn What He Expected Me Never to See
Part 7 of 24
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