By sunrise the next morning, Travis’s black Ford had been found.
Abandoned.
A county road twelve miles outside town.
The driver's door was unlocked.
The keys were gone.
The front passenger hubcap was still missing.
Inside the truck police found fast-food wrappers, two empty water bottles, a sweatshirt, a pair of binoculars and several printed photographs.
They also found Amber’s fireproof lockbox.
Closed.
Bentley was sitting at my table when Detective Harris called.
“Don't react strongly,” Harris said.
I looked at Bentley.
He was doing multiplication problems.
That was probably why Harris warned me.
“You found it?”
“Yes.”
“Is the evidence inside?”
“We don't know yet.”
“Why not?”
“The box is locked.”
“Break it.”
“We will obtain authorization.”
I hated procedure whenever procedure required waiting.
“What about Travis?”
“Gone.”
“Any sign where?”
“No.”
“Blood?”
A pause.
“Some.”
“Inside the truck?”
“Yes.”
“His?”
“We don't know.”
I lowered my voice.
“Could he be injured?”
“Possible.”
That should have comforted me.
It did not.
An injured desperate man frightened me more than an uninjured one.
Harris continued.
“There’s something else.”
Of course.
“There’s a second blood source.”
I sat down.
“What does that mean?”
“Blood on the storage facility floor appears to belong to someone other than the blood in the truck.”
“Two people were hurt?”
“Possibly.”
“Do you know who?”
“Not yet.”
I ended the call and told Doug only what Bentley could safely hear.
Truck found.
Lockbox recovered.
Travis missing.
No speculation.
At ten, Amber called.
Her voice was stronger.
“I'm being discharged tomorrow.”
I nearly shouted.
“Already?”
“Not home-home.”
A rehabilitation facility for several days.
Still in Indianapolis.
Still supervised.
Still safe.
“That counts.”
She laughed softly.
It was the healthiest sound I had heard from her.
Then I told her about the lockbox.
She went quiet.
“Was it opened?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“What's inside besides the phone?”
“Original ledgers.”
“What else?”
Silence.
I knew that silence now.
“Amber.”
“Insurance documents.”
“What kind?”
“Business insurance.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Because Travis filed a claim.”
“Against what?”
She explained.
After their company collapsed, a warehouse they rented burned.
Travis claimed equipment and materials worth nearly three hundred thousand dollars were destroyed.
Insurance paid a large settlement.
Amber had always believed the warehouse had been mostly empty.
“You think he burned it?”
“I don't know.”
“But the records?”
“Show equipment had been moved weeks before.”
I closed my eyes.
Fraud.
Possibly arson.
No wonder Travis wanted the evidence.
“Anyone hurt in the fire?”
“No.”
“That you know of.”
“No.”
She heard my concern.
“Miss Arlene, I never thought this was dangerous.”
“You moved cities and hid documents in a storage unit.”
“I thought he wanted to avoid prison.”
“He assaulted you.”
“I know.”
“And threatened children.”
“I know.”
Her voice tightened.
“I know.”
I softened mine.
“Sorry.”
“No. You're right.”
Then Amber said something unexpected.
“There's one person you need to call.”
“Who?”
“Marcus Hale.”
I wrote the name down.
“Who is that?”
“Travis’s old business partner.”
“Where does he live?”
“Last I knew, Lafayette.”
“What does he know?”
“Everything.”
Amber had not spoken to Marcus in years.
He had vanished shortly after the warehouse fire.
At the time, Travis claimed Marcus stole company money.
Amber believed him.
Later she reconsidered.
“Do police know?”
“I told them this morning.”
Then why tell me?
“Because Marcus knew about the phone.”
That mattered.
“Could he have gone to the storage unit?”
“I don't know.”
I called Harris.
He already had officers searching for Marcus.
That afternoon the blood results returned.
Harris came in person.
Never a good sign.
Bentley was in the backyard with Doug.
Maddie was asleep.
Harris sat at my kitchen table.
“The blood from Travis's truck belongs to Travis.”
“So he’s hurt.”
“Yes.”
“How badly?”
“Unknown.”
“And the storage unit?”
He placed both hands on the table.
“Marcus Hale.”
I stared at him.
“You found him?”
“Not yet.”
“How do you know it's his blood?”
“Prior record. DNA available.”
“What prior record?”
“Assault charge from years ago.”
Against whom?
Harris hesitated.
“Travis Nolan.”
The story shifted again.
Marcus and Travis had fought months before the warehouse burned.
The charge was dropped.
Marcus left town shortly after.
“So Marcus was at the storage unit.”
“Yes.”
“And Travis was there.”
“Likely.”
“They fought.”
“We don't know.”
I gave him a look.
He corrected himself.
“We strongly suspect there was a confrontation.”
“Who took the lockbox?”
“Travis.”
“How do you know?”
“His blood is on the handle.”
“Where is Marcus?”
“We're looking.”
“Alive?”
“We hope.”
That phrase stayed with me.
We hope.
At four that afternoon, police opened the lockbox.
The contents were largely intact.
Ledgers.
Insurance documents.
Receipts.
Copies of payments.
An old black smartphone.
One envelope of photographs.
And a sealed letter.
Addressed to Amber.
Written by Marcus.
“How long had it been there?” I asked.
“Dated three years ago.”
“Amber knew?”
“No.”
That was strange.
“How did it get inside her lockbox?”
Harris did not know.
The letter had apparently been placed there before Amber moved the box into storage.
Perhaps years ago.
Perhaps while she and Travis still shared an office.
“What does it say?”
“I can't share the full contents yet.”
“Can you share the important part?”
He considered.
“Marcus believed Travis was preparing to blame Amber for the missing money.”
I stared at him.
“He knew?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't he tell her?”
“He claims he tried.”
Amber had never received the letter.
“Then who put it in the box?”
“We don't know.”
The letter referenced the warehouse.
Marcus believed the fire had been planned.
He also wrote that Travis kept “a second set of books” documenting cash jobs and payments to people who helped him.
One name appeared repeatedly.
Not an employee.
Not a customer.
A county inspector named Gerald Pike.
I knew Gerald.
Everyone did.
He had retired two years earlier.
“Are you telling me a county inspector was taking bribes?”
“I’m telling you Marcus alleged it.”
“What does that have to do with Amber?”
“Possibly nothing.”
“Possibly?”
Harris leaned back.
“Mrs. Whitaker, if these records are authentic, Travis wasn't hiding one crime.”
He had built a system.
Fraud.
False inspections.
Insurance claims.
Shell payments.
Maybe more.
Amber had accidentally preserved the evidence.
No wonder he had hunted her for years.
At six, Doug took the children to get pizza.
I remained home because Harris expected another call.
It came twenty minutes later.
Not Harris.
Unknown number.
I nearly ignored it.
Then answered.
“Hello?”
Breathing.
A man.
Weak.
“Arlene Whitaker?”
I stood.
“Yes.”
“My name is Marcus Hale.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“Where are you?”
“I don't have much time.”
“You're hurt.”
“Yes.”
“Police are looking for you.”
“I know.”
“Tell me where you are.”
“First tell me Amber is alive.”
“She is.”
A long breath.
“Thank God.”
“Marcus, where are you?”
“I went to the storage unit.”
“I know.”
“I thought I could get the box before Travis.”
“You didn't.”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“He was waiting.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“Why did you go there?”
“Because somebody called me.”
“Who?”
“Amber.”
I froze.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Amber has been hospitalized.”
“Then someone used her number.”
My skin went cold.
“When?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“What did they say?”
“That Travis had found the unit.”
“And you believed it?”
“I knew what was inside.”
“Where are you?”
He ignored the question.
“Listen to me. Travis isn't working alone.”
I closed my eyes.
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Because somebody has been feeding him information.”
About Amber.
About the storage unit.
About police movements.
About us.
“What happened at the unit?”
“I got there first. Someone had already cut the lock.”
“Travis?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he arrived after me.”
My heart began pounding.
“So there was someone else.”
“Yes.”
“Did you see them?”
“No.”
“Car?”
“Gray sedan.”
“Plate?”
“No.”
“Then Travis came?”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
“Wanted the box.”
“You fought.”
“He had a knife.”
I gripped the counter.
“Did he stab you?”
“Side.”
“And his blood?”
“I hit him with a tire iron.”
“Marcus, call 911.”
“No hospital.”
“You need one.”
“No cops until I tell you something.”
“Tell me.”
His breath rattled.
“The phone in that box has messages.”
“We know.”
“Not the old business messages.”
“What else?”
“A recording.”
I waited.
“Of what?”
“The night of the warehouse fire.”
My pulse quickened.
“What does it show?”
“Not show.”
“Audio.”
“Who is on it?”
“Travis.”
“And?”
Marcus stopped speaking.
“Marcus?”
When he answered, his voice had fallen almost to a whisper.
“Doug.”
I stared across my kitchen toward the framed photograph of my son.
“No.”
“Doug Whitaker.”
“You're wrong.”
“I wish I was.”
“Doug barely knew Travis.”
“Ask him where he worked twelve years ago.”
I could barely breathe.
Doug had changed careers several times.
Construction.
Property maintenance.
County contracting.
He never talked much about those years.
Marcus continued.
“Ask him why Travis had his signature.”
The forged locksmith authorization.
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
“Arlene.”
“Where are you?”
“I need to move.”
“Marcus, don't hang up.”
“Don't trust anybody who had access to that property.”
The line clicked dead.
I stood alone in the kitchen.
Five minutes later headlights crossed my front window.
Doug’s car pulled into the driveway.
Bentley jumped out carrying a pizza box.
Maddie followed, laughing.
Doug closed the driver’s door and looked toward me through the glass.
My son.
The man who had canceled the eviction.
Bought groceries.
Fixed Amber’s cabinet.
Protected the children.
And somewhere on a phone recovered from Travis Nolan’s stolen lockbox was a recording that, according to a bleeding man hiding from police, connected Doug to the crime that had started all of this years before Amber ever moved next door.
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: I Asked Doug About the Warehouse Fire, and His Answer Forced Me to Question What My Own Son Had Hidden for Years
The Boy Next Door Knocked at 7:10 Every Morning, and His Careful Excuse Began to Stop Making Sense
Part 8 of 35
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