The hospital moved me before the vehicle reached the county line.
Nobody asked whether I wanted to go.
Detective Brooks entered with two uniformed officers and told Clare and me to collect our things.
“Where?”
“Secure location.”
“Is Dererick coming here?”
“We don’t know.”
“Then why move me?”
“Because he knows where you were examined.”
“How?”
“He could reasonably assume.”
That was enough.
We were taken through a service corridor instead of the main entrance.
I wore borrowed hospital clothes beneath Clare’s coat. My own belongings remained sealed as evidence.
Outside, an unmarked SUV waited with its engine running.
I climbed into the rear beside Clare.
Brooks sat in front.
“Where’s the vehicle now?”
“Still southbound.”
“Police following?”
“Yes.”
“Why not stop it?”
“They want to identify occupants and avoid forcing a confrontation in an isolated area.”
“Can they see Dererick?”
“Not clearly.”
“What vehicle?”
“Dark pickup.”
“Registered to?”
“Stolen.”
Of course.
Every layer of his life seemed to contain another prepared exit.
We drove away from the hospital.
I watched the city through tinted glass.
“Where are we going?”
Brooks said, “A protected interview site.”
“Police station?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t want predictable.”
That word finally sounded intelligent to me.
Dererick relied on prediction.
He predicted when I would become sleepy.
How I would explain bruises.
What Clare would believe.
What police might think.
What story could replace the truth.
Perhaps unpredictability was the one thing he could not comfortably manage.
My thoughts returned to the pickup.
“Who was beside him?”
“We don’t know that anyone is.”
“You said occupants.”
“Possible occupants.”
I leaned back.
Clare touched my wrist.
“Stop interrogating the detective.”
“I can’t.”
“I know.”
Her voice contained no criticism.
Only fatigue.
Brooks’s phone rang.
He answered through the vehicle system.
A voice gave rapid location updates.
The pickup had turned west.
Then south again.
“Where does that take them?” I asked when the call ended.
“Toward the interstate.”
“Airport?”
“Could.”
“Northstar?”
“Different direction.”
“Our house?”
Brooks looked at the navigation display.
“Not directly.”
I stared at the moving map.
Then I recognized the route.
“Clare.”
She looked up.
“What?”
“That road.”
“What about it?”
“It goes near your apartment.”
Her face changed.
Brooks turned partly around.
“Address?”
Clare gave it.
He immediately relayed the information.
“Why would Dererick go there?” she asked.
I knew.
“My computer.”
“What computer?”
“The old laptop I keep at your place.”
Clare frowned.
“You haven’t used that in months.”
“It has backups.”
“Of what?”
“Emails. Tax records. Client files.”
“Anything useful to him?”
“My old password manager.”
Brooks turned fully.
“Is it current?”
“No. But some passwords may still work.”
“Keys to your apartment?”
Clare’s face drained.
“Dererick has been there.”
“Does he have a key?”
“I gave Anna a spare.”
I thought.
“Mine was on my main key ring.”
The keys in my purse.
The purse I had carried to Mr. Peterson’s.
Dererick did not have them.
Unless he had copied the key earlier.
“He could have made one.”
Brooks was already speaking into his radio.
The SUV changed direction.
“No,” I said.
“We aren’t going there.”
“Good.”
“Officers are.”
The pickup continued south.
Then suddenly stopped.
A surveillance unit reported it parked behind a grocery store.
No movement.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Police approached.
The truck was empty.
Dererick had switched vehicles again.
But officers found something on the passenger seat.
A phone.
Not his.
Jennifer’s.
The same phone used to send the warning about Sophie.
“He planted it,” I said.
Brooks nodded.
“Likely.”
“Why?”
“Tracking diversion.”
“He wanted police following the truck.”
“Possibly.”
“Then he’s already somewhere else.”
Clare whispered, “My apartment.”
Brooks called again.
Officers reached her building seven minutes later.
The door was locked.
No sign of forced entry.
Inside, however, the old laptop was gone.
Clare stared at the seat in front of her.
“He was there.”
“Someone was,” Brooks said.
“Dererick.”
“Likely.”
“What else?”
“Officers are checking.”
My anger finally overtook fear.
“He keeps getting ahead because he knows us.”
Brooks said nothing.
“He knew Clare would come to the hospital. He knew my backups were at her apartment. He knows where my parents live. He knows my clients.”
“We’re protecting people connected to you.”
“How many?”
“As many as necessary.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the answer I can give.”
I turned toward the window.
The SUV entered an underground garage beneath an office building.
We transferred through a secured elevator into rooms that looked intentionally anonymous.
No exterior windows.
Gray carpet.
Conference table.
Coffee machine.
Clare and I were placed in one room while Brooks coordinated outside.
For the first time, I noticed how exhausted my body was.
I had not slept.
I had barely eaten.
Adrenaline had carried me through the night, but now my hands felt heavy.
The sensation terrified me.
“Heavy arms,” I whispered.
Clare looked at me.
“What?”
“That’s what I told you on the phone.”
She understood.
“You’re tired now. That’s all.”
“How would I know?”
She stood and brought me bottled water.
“Because you haven’t taken anything from Dererick.”
I checked the seal before opening it.
Clare noticed.
Neither of us commented.
Half an hour passed.
Then Shaw arrived.
There was dried mud on the hem of her trousers.
“Jennifer and Sophie are together,” she said immediately.
I exhaled.
“Safe?”
“Protected.”
“Can Jennifer talk?”
“She has been.”
“What about the cabin?”
“Significant evidence.”
“Dererick?”
“No.”
“Elaine?”
“No.”
“Thomas?”
“No.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“What was at the cabin?”
“Records, medications, electronic devices and personal property linked to several victims.”
“Another Northstar.”
“More like a staging location.”
“Did Jennifer recognize it?”
“Yes.”
“She had been there?”
“Many times.”
“Was that where she lived?”
“Sometimes.”
Sometimes.
The word told me how thoroughly they had denied her even the stability of captivity.
“Did she say where Dererick would go?”
“She gave us several possibilities.”
“Clare’s apartment?”
“No.”
“Then how did he know about my old laptop?”
“Because your husband had copies of your digital records.”
I stared.
“What records?”
“Passwords. Account recovery information. Contacts. Old device lists.”
“He had access to everything.”
“A great deal.”
“What did he want from the laptop?”
“We don’t know.”
“Maybe the discredit package.”
“Maybe.”
Shaw sat across from me.
“Anna, I need to ask you about someone.”
“Who?”
“Mark Peterson.”
“Mr. Peterson’s son?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“The fake affair.”
“That’s why his name first came up.”
“What about him?”
“When did you last see him?”
I thought.
“Months ago. He visited his father.”
“Speak to him?”
“Maybe five minutes.”
“Ever message him privately?”
“No.”
“Phone calls?”
“No.”
“Did Dererick know him?”
“They met.”
“How well?”
“I thought barely.”
Shaw watched me.
“What?”
“Mark Peterson’s number appears repeatedly in Dererick’s communications.”
The room became silent.
“No.”
“Under an alias.”
“How do you know it’s Mark?”
“Subscriber records.”
“What alias?”
“MP17.”
I remembered the client code Jennifer mentioned.
A17.
Not the same.
But close enough to make my skin crawl.
“What were they talking about?”
“Some messages concern surveillance.”
“Of me?”
“Yes.”
I stood.
“No.”
Clare said my name softly.
“Mr. Peterson helped me.”
“His son is not his father.”
“I know.”
But suddenly the fabricated affair seemed less random.
Dererick had selected Mark because Mark was already connected somehow.
“What did Mark do?”
“We’re establishing that.”
“Did he photograph me?”
“Possibly.”
“Those pictures outside the grocery store?”
“We don’t know.”
“Did Mr. Peterson know?”
“No evidence of that.”
I thought of the old man writing down van plates on his calendar.
His horror when Dererick accused him of watching too much.
No.
If he was acting, he deserved an award.
“What does MP17 mean?”
“Unknown.”
“Is Mark part of Bellweather?”
“Not formally.”
“Northstar?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Shaw opened a folder.
“Mark works in private security.”
I remembered almost nothing about him except broad shoulders, easy smile, and a habit of checking his phone while talking.
“He told me corporate security.”
“He works for a contractor that provides surveillance and protective services.”
“To Bellweather?”
“Among other clients.”
My stomach turned.
“Dererick hired him.”
“Payments suggest someone did.”
“For how long?”
“About a year.”
Eleven months of photographs.
A year of payments.
The pieces aligned.
“Mark was watching me.”
“We believe he may have participated in surveillance.”
“Does his father know what he does?”
“We’re speaking to him.”
“Where is Mark now?”
“We don’t know.”
Of course.
Another missing person who was not a victim.
Or maybe was.
I no longer trusted categories.
Shaw’s phone buzzed.
She checked it.
Then looked at me.
“What?”
“We located Mark’s vehicle.”
“Where?”
“Near your house.”
My mouth went dry.
“Is he there?”
“Officers are checking.”
“Why would he go to my house?”
No one answered.
Then another message arrived.
Shaw read it.
“Vehicle empty.”
“Inside the house?”
“Unknown.”
“My house is secured.”
“It should be.”
“Should be?”
She was already standing.
“Stay here.”
The door closed behind her.
Clare and I looked at each other.
“Anna,” she said, “what if Mark isn’t helping Dererick anymore?”
“What?”
“He parked near your house. Maybe he’s trying to get something.”
“For himself?”
“Or evidence.”
I thought of the concealed compartment.
The notebook.
The briefcase.
Most had been seized.
What could remain?
Then I remembered something so ordinary I had ignored it all morning.
Dererick’s work laptop.
The company machine.
I had searched for his personal laptop because I knew it was hidden.
But his work bag had usually sat downstairs.
“His work computer.”
Clare frowned.
“What about it?”
“I never saw it last night.”
“Maybe he took it.”
“Maybe.”
I stood and went to the door.
The officer outside stopped me.
“I need Shaw.”
“She’ll return.”
“Tell her now.”
He radioed.
Two minutes later Shaw came back.
I told her.
“Where was the work laptop normally kept?”
“Kitchen desk or his car.”
“Was it there when officers searched?”
“I don’t know.”
She called Price.
The answer came quickly.
No work laptop had been recovered from the house, Dererick’s vehicle, Northstar or the rehab facility.
“Could it be with him?” Clare asked.
“Yes,” Shaw said.
“Then Mark’s car doesn’t matter.”
Unless Mark had it.
The thought arrived simultaneously for all of us.
Shaw stepped out again.
Minutes later, officers searching around my house found a man behind the detached garage.
Mark Peterson.
He did not run.
He raised his hands.
He was carrying a laptop bag.
Dererick’s company logo was printed on the side.
Police detained him.
I waited for relief.
None came.
At 2:46 that afternoon, Shaw returned with a photograph taken during Mark’s arrest.
He looked older than I remembered, unshaven and exhausted.
“What did he say?”
“He claims he took the laptop before police arrived this morning.”
“Why?”
“He says Dererick told him to.”
My stomach tightened.
“So he’s working for him.”
“Mark says he was.”
“Was?”
“He claims he realized last night that the operation was moving into what he called terminal cleanup.”
“What does that mean?”
“He believes Dererick intends to destroy evidence and eliminate people who can identify the network.”
“Eliminate?”
Shaw did not soften it.
“Kill.”
Clare gripped the table.
“Jennifer?”
“Potentially.”
“Sophie?”
“Potentially.”
“Me?”
Shaw met my eyes.
“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“And Mark?”
“Yes.”
“Elaine? Thomas?”
“Possibly.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“Why steal the laptop?”
“Mark says it contains an offline access key.”
“To what?”
“A remote server.”
My pulse quickened.
“The archive?”
“Much larger.”
“How large?”
“He claims Dererick’s personal laptop only contained active working files.”
“And the server?”
“Years of records.”
“How many victims?”
Shaw’s expression told me before she answered.
“Mark says more than forty.”
The number did not feel real.
Forty women.
Forty lives turned into folders, photographs, codes and transactions.
“Can you access it?”
“Digital investigators are working on the laptop.”
“Where is Mark?”
“In custody.”
“Does his father know?”
“Yes.”
I pictured Mr. Peterson alone at his kitchen table, discovering that the son he trusted may have helped the man across the street monitor me.
“Did Mark photograph me?”
“Yes.”
The answer hurt more than I expected.
“Did he know Dererick was drugging me?”
“He says not initially.”
“Later?”
“Yes.”
“And he kept working.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Money. Fear. Then leverage.”
“What leverage?”
“Dererick recorded Mark participating in illegal surveillance and other activities.”
“So Dererick controlled him too.”
“That is Mark’s account.”
I felt no sympathy yet.
Maybe later.
“Does Mark know where Dererick is?”
“He gave us several safe locations.”
“Anything useful?”
“One location wasn’t in our records.”
“Where?”
Shaw unfolded a map.
An address had been circled.
I recognized the neighborhood immediately.
It was less than three miles from Clare’s apartment.
“What is it?”
“A rented townhouse.”
“Whose name?”
“Not Dererick’s.”
“Who?”
Shaw looked at me.
“According to Mark, it is maintained for A17.”
The client code from my graduation file.
My mouth went dry.
“Who is A17?”
“Mark claims he never knew the real name.”
“But Dererick did.”
“Yes.”
“What does A17 want with me?”
“Mark says you were selected specifically.”
“Why?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“Selected when?”
Shaw hesitated.
“Before the surveillance began.”
“How long before?”
“Mark says Dererick first asked him to gather information on you fourteen months ago.”
I felt something inside me go still.
Fourteen months.
That was before the first photographs.
Before the drugs.
But not before my marriage.
“Why would a stranger select me?”
“We’re trying to answer that.”
My mind raced through clients, former coworkers, old friends, people I had argued with, people I had forgotten.
Then Shaw’s phone rang.
She answered.
Listened.
Her expression hardened.
“Secure the townhouse.”
She hung up.
“What?”
“The server team opened one of the encrypted index files.”
“And?”
“They found A17.”
“A name?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“A photograph.”
“Of who?”
She looked directly at me.
“You.”
I stared at her.
“That doesn’t tell us anything.”
“The photograph wasn’t taken during surveillance.”
My throat tightened.
“When?”
“According to the embedded date, six years ago.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Do you recognize where you were?”
She showed me the image.
I was younger.
Standing outside a hotel conference center.
A portfolio tucked beneath one arm.
I remembered the day.
My first regional design conference.
I had gone alone.
Six years ago.
Two years before I married Dererick.
Someone had photographed me then.
Before he was my husband.
Before I believed we had met.
And according to the server record, the image belonged to the client who had eventually chosen me.
Click here to continue reading: PART 13: The Photograph Was Taken Before I Met Dererick, Which Meant Our Marriage Might Have Begun With Someone Else’s Decision
The Night I Poured Out My Husband’s Tea and Waited to Learn What He Expected Me Never to See
Part 12 of 24
