By seven thirty, I was in the back of Detective Shaw’s unmarked sedan on the way to the hospital.
I had argued until she threatened to have an ambulance take me instead.
That ended the discussion.
Mr. Peterson remained behind with officers because detectives wanted a formal recorded statement.
I watched familiar streets pass through the car window.
Commuters waited at intersections.
A woman jogged with a golden retriever.
A school bus stopped beside a row of apartment buildings.
People were beginning an ordinary Friday while investigators stood inside my bedroom photographing hidden sedatives.
The contrast made me feel detached from everything.
Shaw drove.
Price sat in front beside her, speaking quietly into his phone.
“No, April fourteenth. Check private ambulance contractors too.”
He listened.
“Also transport companies that use medical-style vehicles.”
Another pause.
“Yes. Fraudulent markings possible.”
Medical-style vehicle.
Not an ambulance.
A disguise.
I thought of the woman beneath the blanket.
“How many times did he do that?”
No one answered immediately.
Shaw looked at me through the mirror.
“We don’t know.”
“How many women were taken out of my house?”
“We don’t know.”
“Was Jennifer one of them?”
“We don’t know.”
Every answer was reasonable.
Every answer felt unbearable.
At the hospital, a forensic nurse met me in a private examination room.
Detectives stayed outside.
For the first time all night, I was alone with someone who was not asking me to solve the case.
The nurse’s name was Maya.
She spoke quietly and explained each step before doing anything.
Blood draw.
Urine sample.
Photographs of bruises.
Swabs only with my permission.
I nearly laughed when she said that word.
Permission.
Such a small thing.
Such an enormous difference.
“Yes,” I said. “Do whatever you need.”
She corrected me gently.
“Whatever you choose.”
That almost made me cry.
I looked away.
She photographed the marks on my upper arm and behind my knee.
Most were fading.
One bruise near my shoulder was newer than I had realized.
“Do you remember this?”
“No.”
“Any tenderness?”
“A little.”
She measured it.
Another small mark appeared near the inside of my elbow.
It resembled an old needle puncture.
My stomach twisted.
“Could that be from anything else?” I asked.
“Have you had blood drawn recently?”
“No.”
“Injections?”
“No.”
She did not speculate.
She simply documented it.
When the examination ended, she gave me clean clothes and a paper bag for what I had been wearing.
I stared at the bag.
“Do I have to give them my sweater?”
“Only if investigators request it and you consent.”
“It’s fine.”
That phrase had become automatic.
Fine.
Nothing was fine.
I changed anyway.
When I emerged, Shaw was waiting with coffee.
I took it but did not drink.
“Did they find him?”
“No.”
“His car?”
“Not yet.”
“Flight?”
“No reservation under his name for Chicago this morning.”
I had expected that.
Still, hearing it made something sink inside me.
The trip had been a lie.
“How about April fourteenth?”
Shaw hesitated.
That meant they had something.
“What?”
“Price found a traffic camera image.”
“Of the ambulance?”
“A vehicle resembling one.”
“Resembling?”
“White transport van with removable medical markings.”
“Plate?”
“Visible.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“Registered to who?”
“A company called Northstar Patient Logistics.”
“Is that real?”
“It exists.”
“Medical company?”
“On paper.”
“Meaning?”
“The listed address is a commercial building outside town.”
“Who owns it?”
“We’re still tracing that.”
“Dererick?”
“Not directly.”
“What does that mean?”
Shaw sat beside me.
“It means corporate records don’t put his name on it.”
“But?”
“A phone number associated with the company appears in your copied client communications.”
For several seconds I said nothing.
“So it’s connected.”
“Yes.”
“What do they do there?”
“We’re finding out.”
I stood.
“Take me.”
“No.”
“I might recognize something.”
“No.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep trying to insert yourself into an active investigation.”
“It is my life.”
“And that building may contain people who helped drug you.”
The bluntness stopped me.
Shaw lowered her voice.
“I understand why you want to see everything with your own eyes. You have spent months being denied information about what was happening to you.”
I stared at her.
“But going into an unknown location won’t give you control back.”
I sat.
That sentence stayed with me.
A few minutes later, Price entered.
He looked energized.
“They got the car.”
I stood again.
“Dererick?”
“No.”
“Where?”
“Airport parking garage.”
“Chicago?”
“Our airport.”
“Was he there?”
“No sign.”
“When was the car parked?”
“Three twenty-eight.”
That was less than half an hour after I watched headlights leave our driveway.
“He drove to the airport.”
“Looks that way.”
“Then took another car?”
“Possibly.”
“Cameras?”
“They’re pulling footage.”
My mind returned to his message.
He knew I was at Peterson’s.
Remote surveillance.
Location sharing.
He could have been anywhere.
“What was in the car?”
“Rolling suitcase.”
“So he wanted it to look like he traveled.”
“Possibly.”
“Black bag?”
“No.”
The bag was with him.
Camera.
Samples.
Notebook had stayed behind.
Maybe by mistake.
Maybe because the notebook was disposable and the bag was not.
Price looked at Shaw.
“Northstar address checks out. Local unit is waiting on entry authority.”
“Anything on the company?”
“Registered eighteen months ago. Bare bones.”
“Employees?”
“Two listed.”
“Names?”
Price glanced at me.
Shaw nodded.
“Tell her.”
“Elaine Mercer and Thomas Vale.”
Neither name meant anything to me.
“Elaine,” I said. “Could she be the woman Peterson saw?”
“Maybe.”
“Photos?”
“We’re getting them.”
Price handed Shaw his phone.
She looked, then turned it toward me.
The image showed a professional headshot from a licensing database.
Dark shoulder-length hair.
Mid-forties.
I stared.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.”
“I’ve never seen her.”
“Peterson can look later.”
They continued talking.
Search authority.
Digital warrants.
Vehicle records.
The words blurred together.
Then Price’s phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
His entire posture changed.
“Slow down.”
Shaw looked at him.
“What?”
He held up one finger.
“Where?”
Another pause.
“Don’t touch anything else.”
My pulse accelerated.
Price ended the call.
“They’re inside Northstar.”
“How?” Shaw asked.
“Property manager consented to common areas. Exterior office door was unsecured. They stopped pending warrant once they saw equipment.”
“What equipment?”
“Medical.”
I stood again.
Price looked at me.
“Beds.”
The room went silent.
“How many?”
“At least four.”
I gripped the back of a chair.
“Hospital beds?”
“Adjustable procedure beds.”
“What else?”
“Cameras.”
My mouth went dry.
“Like Dererick’s?”
“Unknown.”
“Women?”
“No one found so far.”
“Blood?”
“Nothing reported.”
Shaw stood.
“We need to go.”
I moved toward the door.
She blocked me.
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Then tell me what they find.”
“I will tell you what I can.”
They left me with an officer.
The next two hours were among the longest of my life.
Clare arrived before nine.
I had finally called her from the hospital and told her only enough to make her come without questions.
She entered the waiting room still wearing navy scrubs under a winter coat.
The moment she saw me, her face changed.
“What did he do?”
I stood.
She crossed the room and held me.
For several seconds I could not speak.
Then I told her.
Not everything at once.
Pieces.
The tea.
The photographs.
The folders.
The hidden medication.
Jennifer.
Patricia.
The fake ambulance.
Clare sat beside me afterward with both hands wrapped around mine.
“I knew something was wrong.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“The phone call.”
“You said I sounded drunk.”
“You didn’t just sound drunk.”
“What else?”
Her eyes filled.
“You kept saying you couldn’t move.”
A chill moved through me.
“What?”
“You said your arms were heavy.”
I had no memory of it.
“You asked me to stay on the phone.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did. The next morning.”
“No. You said I called and sounded half asleep.”
“Because when I told you the rest, you laughed.”
“I laughed?”
“You said you must have been dreaming.”
My own voice seemed to disappear.
“I didn’t remember.”
“I know.”
She squeezed my hands.
“You also said Dererick was downstairs.”
That detail hit me hard.
“What?”
“You whispered it.”
“Was he?”
“I don’t know.”
“What exactly did I say?”
Clare closed her eyes.
“You said, ‘He thinks I’m asleep.’”
The hospital waiting room seemed to tilt.
“Why didn’t that scare you?”
“It did.”
“Clare—”
“I called back.”
“What happened?”
“Dererick answered.”
My blood went cold.
“He said you were having a bad reaction to cold medicine. He sounded completely normal.”
Of course he had.
“What did he tell you?”
“That you were sleeping.”
“Did you speak to me again?”
“No.”
She looked ashamed.
“I believed him.”
I leaned my forehead against our joined hands.
Dererick had been controlling the story long before I understood there was one.
At eleven fifteen, Detective Shaw returned.
I knew immediately something had changed.
She asked Clare to stay if I wanted.
I said yes.
Shaw sat across from us.
“They found records at Northstar.”
“What kind?”
“Patient-style intake files.”
“Patients?”
“That’s the label.”
“Names?”
“Some real. Some coded.”
“Mine?”
“Yes.”
Clare made a small sound beside me.
“What did it say?”
“Anna, I can’t give you every evidentiary detail.”
“Tell me what matters.”
Shaw nodded once.
“Your file lists multiple visits.”
“I’ve never been there.”
“We understand that.”
“How many?”
“Seven.”
Seven.
I stared at her.
“No.”
“Dates correspond with periods when you reported memory gaps.”
“I never went there.”
“You may not remember being transported.”
My stomach turned.
The fake ambulance.
“Was April fourteenth one?”
“Yes.”
I looked at Clare.
She covered her mouth.
“What happened there?”
“We don’t know completely.”
“Graduation?”
Shaw did not answer.
That was answer enough.
“You found it.”
She leaned forward.
“We found a document titled Graduation Protocol.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“What is it?”
“Based on the written material, it appears to be the final stage of a process involving prolonged drug conditioning, staged incapacitation, photographic documentation, and transfer of a victim away from familiar surroundings.”
“Transfer where?”
“The protocol doesn’t specify one place.”
“For what?”
Shaw paused.
“Control.”
The word landed quietly.
I stared at her.
“What kind?”
“Victims were made dependent, disoriented and easier to manipulate. Their disappearance could then be framed as voluntary, medical, psychiatric or accidental depending on the individual circumstances.”
Clare’s grip tightened around my hand.
I could barely speak.
“Jennifer.”
“Yes.”
“She graduated.”
Shaw’s silence answered.
“What happened to her?”
“We found a code beside her name indicating completion.”
“Is she alive?”
“We still don’t know.”
“Patricia?”
“Her record indicates the process was terminated.”
“Why?”
“No reason listed.”
“Michelle?”
Shaw’s jaw tightened.
“Completed.”
The room became very quiet.
“And me?”
Shaw held my gaze.
“Scheduled.”
“When?”
She did not answer immediately.
I already knew.
“Tell me.”
“Tonight.”
The word seemed to erase every sound in the room.
Not next week.
Not soon.
Tonight.
Dererick had accelerated the schedule because I had begun refusing the tea.
“What was supposed to happen?”
“Your record lists a transport window shortly after midnight.”
“Transport to Northstar?”
“No.”
“Where?”
“The destination field is coded.”
“Can you decode it?”
“We’re working on it.”
“Who was supposed to transport me?”
“Northstar vehicle.”
“The fake ambulance.”
“Yes.”
“Dererick knew I was suspicious. Why wait until tonight?”
“Because the plan apparently required you to appear functional today.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Your record includes instructions for normal daytime activity before final sedation.”
The cruelty of it stunned me.
He expected me to wake up.
Work.
Answer messages.
Perhaps speak to Clare.
Maybe eat dinner with him.
Then drink one final cup of tea.
My disappearance would begin from a day that looked perfectly ordinary.
Shaw’s phone rang.
She answered.
Listened.
Her expression sharpened.
“When?”
She stood.
“Secure it.”
Another pause.
“No contact until we identify.”
She ended the call.
“What happened?” I asked.
“They found another room at Northstar.”
“What room?”
“Storage.”
“What’s inside?”
Shaw looked at me.
“Personal belongings.”
My throat tightened.
“From the women?”
“Possibly.”
“IDs?”
“Clothing. Phones. Jewelry. Luggage.”
A life reduced to objects on shelves.
“Anything from Jennifer?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Her suitcase.”
I closed my eyes.
Her belongings had supposedly been left behind in a hotel.
Yet another suitcase carrying her name had been stored at Northstar.
That meant someone had constructed the appearance of her disappearance.
And whoever did it had kept part of the truth.
Shaw’s phone buzzed again.
A message.
She read it.
Then looked at me.
“What?”
“Airport cameras located Dererick.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“Where is he?”
“He entered the terminal.”
“Flight?”
“No.”
“What did he do?”
“He walked through arrivals.”
“Arrivals?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He met someone.”
“Who?”
“We’re identifying her now.”
Her.
A woman.
For a second I thought of Elaine Mercer.
Then Shaw received the photograph.
She enlarged it.
Her face changed.
“What?”
She turned the phone toward me.
The surveillance image was grainy, taken from above.
Dererick stood near an airport exit carrying the black bag.
Beside him was a thin woman in a dark coat.
Her face was turned partly upward.
I knew her immediately.
I had seen her dozens of times on his laptop.
Jennifer Collins.
The missing woman.
Alive.
Standing beside my husband.
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: Jennifer Was Alive, but the Woman Who Vanished Eighteen Months Ago Was No Longer Running From the Man Who Took Her
The Night I Poured Out My Husband’s Tea and Waited to Learn What He Expected Me Never to See
Part 8 of 24
