Clare said the name first.
“Aunt Evelyn?”
Her voice sounded small.
I kept staring at the server record.
Evelyn Whitmore.
W-04.
Status: graduated.
The entry was dated twenty-two years earlier.
My mouth went dry.
“That’s impossible.”
Detective Shaw sat very still.
“What do you know about her?”
“She died.”
“How?”
I looked at Clare.
Neither of us answered immediately.
Because that part had always been vague.
Car accident, I thought.
Or maybe illness.
I remembered my father saying there had been an accident out west.
My mother avoided the topic because Evelyn’s death upset him.
That was the version I carried into adulthood.
“When were you told she died?” Shaw asked.
“I was eleven.”
“Did you attend a funeral?”
I searched my memory.
“No.”
“Memorial?”
“No.”
“See a death certificate?”
“I was a child.”
Clare said, “Dad went away for a few days.”
“Where?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Did Evelyn live nearby?”
“No. Arizona, I think.”
I shook my head.
“Colorado.”
Clare frowned.
“Was it?”
The fact that we disagreed frightened me.
We knew almost nothing.
Evelyn had existed in family stories more than in our lives.
She mailed birthday cards.
Called at Christmas.
Sent me a silver charm bracelet when I turned nine.
Then the calls stopped.
Dad cried.
Mom told us Aunt Evelyn had died.
And childhood moved forward.
Shaw asked, “Do your parents still have records?”
“Probably.”
“Can we contact them?”
I hesitated.
Dererick knew where they lived.
If Bellweather had known our family for twenty-two years, my parents might be at risk.
Shaw read the concern on my face.
“They’re already being protected.”
That startled me.
“You sent officers?”
“After the server tied your family to the network.”
“Did you tell them why?”
“Only that there is an active investigation involving you.”
I took Clare’s phone.
“Call them.”
Shaw did not stop me.
My mother answered.
“Clare?”
“It’s Anna.”
Her voice changed immediately.
“Oh, honey. There are police here. What happened?”
“I’m safe.”
“Where are you?”
“I can’t say.”
“Is this Dererick?”
“Yes.”
She began asking questions.
I interrupted.
“Mom, I need you to tell me about Aunt Evelyn.”
Silence.
Not confusion.
Silence.
My skin prickled.
“Mom?”
“Why?”
The question was too careful.
“What happened to her?”
“You know.”
“No. I know what you told us.”
Clare leaned closer to the phone.
“Mom.”
My mother exhaled shakily.
“I don’t understand what this has to do with Dererick.”
“Did Aunt Evelyn die?”
Another long pause.
My heartbeat became painfully loud.
“Mom.”
“No.”
One syllable.
Twenty-two years collapsed.
Clare stood.
“What?”
I could barely speak.
“You told us she died.”
“We thought it was safer.”
“Safer than what?”
My mother began crying.
Not loudly.
That made it worse.
“She disappeared.”
Shaw started writing.
“When?”
“When you were little.”
“How old was I?”
“Ten.”
“Then why did you tell us she died a year later?”
“Because your father couldn’t keep answering questions.”
“What happened?”
“We didn’t know.”
“Police?”
“Yes.”
“Missing-person report?”
“She was an adult. They investigated.”
“Did they find her?”
“No.”
“Then why isn’t she in missing-person databases?”
My mother hesitated.
“She contacted your father.”
The room went still.
“When?”
“Almost a year after she vanished.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she was alive.”
“Where?”
“She wouldn’t tell him.”
“Why?”
“She said we had to stop looking.”
I looked at Shaw.
“Did Dad speak to her directly?”
“Yes.”
“How did he know it was really Evelyn?”
“He knew her voice.”
“Could she answer personal questions?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“She begged him to tell everyone she was dead.”
My skin went cold.
“Why?”
“She said people would come after us if we kept searching.”
Clare whispered, “Oh my God.”
My mother continued.
“Your father wanted to go to police. Evelyn said if he did, she would disappear permanently.”
“Did she sound afraid?”
“Yes.”
“Drugged?”
“I don’t know.”
“Confused?”
“Sometimes.”
“How long was the call?”
“Maybe ten minutes.”
“Did she ever call again?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“Years later.”
My pulse jumped.
“How many?”
“About twelve years ago.”
I closed my eyes.
That was after I left college.
“What did she say?”
“Very little.”
“Did she ask about us?”
“Yes.”
“What exactly?”
My mother hesitated.
“She asked about you.”
Every muscle tightened.
“Me specifically?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She wanted to know what you were doing.”
“How old was I?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Did Dad tell her?”
“A little.”
“Did she ask about Clare?”
“Not really.”
Clare looked hurt and confused.
“What did she ask about Anna?”
“School. Work. Whether you were dating anyone.”
I felt sick.
Twelve years ago.
Four years before the conference photograph.
“Did Dad think that was strange?”
“Very.”
“What happened after?”
“Evelyn said something.”
“What?”
My mother began crying harder.
“She said, ‘Don’t let them choose Anna.’”
The room went completely silent.
I gripped the phone.
“What does that mean?”
“We didn’t know.”
“Did you ask?”
“Your father did.”
“And?”
“She hung up.”
My hands went numb.
“She warned you.”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me.”
“How could we? We didn’t know what she meant.”
“You could have told me someone was asking about me.”
“You were twenty-two. We thought Evelyn was mentally unwell.”
Shaw’s eyes sharpened at the phrase.
“Why?”
“Because of the first call.”
“What did she say?”
“She talked about people changing her name. Watching her. Giving her medicine.”
Clare closed her eyes.
My mother continued.
“She said they were teaching her a new life.”
Graduation.
Twenty-two years ago.
The process had existed long before Dererick.
“Did she use the word Bellweather?”
“No.”
“Northstar?”
“No.”
“Graduation?”
My mother stopped.
“What?”
“Did she say graduation?”
“Yes.”
I felt the floor beneath my understanding shift.
“When?”
“First call.”
“What exactly?”
“She said she had graduated and couldn’t come back.”
Clare whispered, “Anna.”
I looked at Shaw.
Aunt Evelyn had been one of them.
A victim turned into a disappearance.
A person who remained alive but was compelled to sever her identity.
“Is Dad there?”
“He’s with an officer.”
“Put him on.”
There was movement.
Then my father’s voice.
“Anna?”
He sounded older than he had the previous week.
“Dad, tell me everything Evelyn said.”
“We told the police years ago.”
“Tell me.”
He exhaled.
“She said she’d made mistakes.”
“What kind?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
“Did she sound like she blamed herself?”
“Yes.”
That matched Jennifer.
Complicity manufactured through coercion.
“Did she mention other people?”
“Only ‘them.’”
“Did she mention someone named Mercer?”
My father went silent.
My heart stopped.
“Dad.”
“Not Mercer.”
“What?”
“Mercer wasn’t the name.”
“What name?”
“Vale.”
Thomas.
The second Northstar employee.
“What did she say?”
“She said a man named Vale knew where we lived.”
“First name?”
“No.”
“Thomas?”
“I don’t know.”
“How old would Thomas Vale be now?”
Shaw was already searching.
She held up five fingers.
Fifty-five.
Twenty-two years ago he would have been thirty-three.
Old enough.
“What did Evelyn say about Vale?”
“That he was watching the family.”
“Did police investigate?”
“They couldn’t identify him.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because after Evelyn’s second call, nothing happened.”
“Something did happen.”
I looked at the server record bearing my name.
“They chose me.”
My father’s breathing changed.
“What do you mean?”
I could not explain everything over the phone.
Not yet.
“Dad, do you have pictures of Evelyn?”
“Yes.”
“Recent?”
“No.”
“Send whatever you have to Detective Shaw.”
He agreed.
Before ending the call, he said, “Anna.”
“Yes?”
“If this is what I think it is…”
His voice broke.
“I’m sorry.”
I closed my eyes.
“Stay with the officers.”
That was all I could manage.
Shaw ended the speaker connection.
Clare sat back down.
“Our parents knew.”
“They knew pieces.”
“They told us she died.”
“They were scared.”
“So are we.”
There was anger in her voice.
I understood it.
But my father had been threatened before any of us knew what kind of enemy Bellweather was.
Twenty-two years ago he had no server files.
No detectives connecting dots.
Only a sister saying people had changed her identity and knew where his children lived.
“What happened to Evelyn after the second call?” Shaw asked.
“No contact.”
“Could she still be alive?”
I stared at the W-04 status.
“If Jennifer survived eighteen months…”
Shaw nodded.
Possible.
Aunt Evelyn would be in her sixties now.
Living under a different name.
Maybe still under control.
Maybe escaped.
Maybe part of the network.
That last possibility hurt.
Jennifer had been forced to assist with other victims.
What had Evelyn been forced to do over twenty-two years?
Price arrived with new digital results.
He stopped when he saw our faces.
“What?”
Shaw summarized quickly.
Price sat.
“That explains the lineage flag.”
“What lineage flag?”
He opened his laptop.
“Some candidates have an L marker.”
“Meaning?”
“We didn’t know.”
Now we did.
Prior family connection.
“Are they selecting relatives?”
Price searched.
“Seven candidates share surnames with older graduates.”
My skin crawled.
“Why?”
“Could be access. Genetics. Psychological profiling. Existing leverage.”
“Genetics?”
Clare looked alarmed.
Price raised a hand.
“I’m listing possibilities, not conclusions.”
I thought of Dererick collecting swabs.
“Samples.”
Shaw looked at me.
“What?”
“He took biological samples.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Unknown.”
“What if it isn’t only about drugs?”
The room went quiet.
“Family lines.”
Clare shook her head.
“No.”
“I’m not saying experiments.”
“Then what?”
“Selection.”
If Bellweather had decades of records, perhaps prior victims provided information useful for identifying later ones.
Family vulnerabilities.
Health responses.
Social structures.
But another explanation occurred to me.
“Maybe Evelyn recommended me.”
The thought hurt as soon as I voiced it.
Clare stared.
“You don’t know that.”
“No.”
“She warned Dad.”
“Later.”
“She said don’t let them choose Anna.”
“That could mean she knew they already were.”
Shaw said, “Both are possible.”
I hated both possibilities.
Either Evelyn had somehow helped direct attention toward me, or she learned the network was targeting her niece and tried unsuccessfully to intervene.
Price scrolled further.
“W-04 has downstream activity.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
“What does that mean?”
“Her account wasn’t closed after graduation.”
“So she worked for them.”
“Not necessarily voluntarily.”
“Where?”
“Multiple locations.”
“Recent?”
Price stopped.
“Yes.”
“How recent?”
“Four months ago.”
I stared at him.
Aunt Evelyn was alive four months ago.
Or at least her identity code was used.
“What activity?”
“Authorization access.”
My stomach tightened.
“She became an administrator?”
“Limited-level approval.”
“What did she approve?”
He searched.
Several files appeared.
Candidates.
Transfers.
Payments.
Then one record.
Mine.
I stopped breathing.
“What did she do?”
Price read silently.
“What?”
He turned the laptop toward Shaw.
She looked at me.
“W-04 filed an objection to your graduation.”
“When?”
“Five months ago.”
My throat tightened.
“What happened?”
“Denied.”
“By A17?”
“Yes.”
Evelyn had tried to stop it.
Just like Dererick.
Different times.
Different positions.
Both denied.
“What did her objection say?”
Price opened the note.
Family connection makes candidate unsuitable. Continued progression creates unacceptable exposure risk.
I stared.
“That sounds practical.”
“Not emotional,” Clare said.
“No.”
Maybe Evelyn had learned to speak the network’s language because it was the only language they acknowledged.
The next line was from A17.
Objection overruled. Candidate priority unchanged.
Priority.
I had been important to them.
“Why?”
Shaw asked the same question aloud.
No one knew.
Then Price found another entry.
W-04 requested direct handler contact.
Approved.
Date: four months ago.
My pulse quickened.
“With Dererick?”
“Looks like it.”
“Did they meet?”
“Unclear.”
“Messages?”
Price searched.
One communication survived.
It contained only one sentence from W-04 to D.R.
You still have time to get her out.
I covered my mouth.
Dererick replied:
I tried.
Nothing else.
For several seconds, no one moved.
Two people inside Bellweather had tried to stop my graduation.
Neither warned me directly.
Neither went to police.
Neither saved me.
But both resisted.
Why only indirectly?
Fear.
Complicity.
Control.
Or because the organization held something stronger over them than my life.
Shaw’s phone rang.
She answered.
Her expression changed.
“What?”
She motioned for silence.
“Yes. Verify first.”
A pause.
“Send image.”
She ended the call.
“What?”
“A woman just walked into a police station eighty miles away.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
“Who?”
“She gave the name Evelyn Grant.”
I stared.
“Grant?”
“Officers ran the photograph your father sent.”
My hands began shaking.
“And?”
Shaw’s phone displayed the comparison.
An older woman with silver-threaded dark hair sat beneath fluorescent lights.
The shape of her eyes was familiar.
So was the narrow chin.
I had seen versions of both in old family photographs.
“In their preliminary judgment,” Shaw said, “she may be Evelyn Whitmore.”
My aunt had been dead for twenty-two years.
And now she had walked into a police station.
“What did she say?”
Shaw looked at the message.
“Only this.”
She turned the screen toward me.
Tell Anna not to trust Dererick, even if he comes back pretending to help.
Click here to continue reading: PART 16: Aunt Evelyn Finally Told Police Why I Had Been Chosen, but Her Warning About Dererick Came Seconds Before He Contacted Me
The Night I Poured Out My Husband’s Tea and Waited to Learn What He Expected Me Never to See
Part 15 of 24
