Reynolds took possession of Martin Hale’s Christmas card that afternoon.
Martin’s wife brought it to the attorney’s office in a plastic sandwich bag, which made Reynolds close his eyes briefly before accepting it.
“You touched it?”
Martin looked embarrassed.
“It was a Christmas card.”
“How many people?”
“My wife. Me. Probably the mail carrier.”
Reynolds sighed.
“What about the envelope?”
“Same.”
The card itself was almost offensively ordinary.
Snow-covered farmhouse.
Red barn.
Printed greeting inside.
Peace and happiness throughout the coming year.
Beneath it, in blue ink, someone had written:
Still building good lives?
No signature.
Martin watched Reynolds seal it properly.
“That’s Marcus’s handwriting?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You said it was something he used to say.”
“It was.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No.”
Reynolds looked at me.
“Good.”
“What?”
“You’re finally learning not to turn coincidence into certainty.”
“I had an expensive teacher.”
Nobody needed to ask whom I meant.
Martin provided several old documents containing Marcus’s handwriting.
Agents sent everything for comparison.
We left separately.
Reynolds made me promise not to contact Sarah until he knew whether the card was genuine.
I lasted one day.
Not because I intended to tell her.
Because she called me.
Prison calls had become familiar enough that seeing the institutional number no longer shocked me.
I accepted.
“You talked to Martin.”
I closed my office door.
“How do you know?”
“Because Reynolds had someone ask me about him this morning.”
“What did they ask?”
“Whether Marcus used a particular phrase.”
My stomach tightened.
“What phrase?”
“Building good lives.”
So they were verifying independently.
“What did you tell them?”
“That Marcus said it sarcastically whenever Martin produced a convincing identity.”
“Anything else?”
“He sometimes said it after destroying one.”
I stopped.
“Explain.”
“If Marcus exposed someone using a false identity, he would call Martin afterward and say something like, ‘Another good life gone.’”
The phrase became uglier.
“Sarah.”
“Yes?”
“Martin received a Christmas card.”
Silence.
“When?”
“Last December.”
“What did it say?”
I told her.
She breathed out slowly.
“Marcus.”
“Maybe.”
“No.”
“You can’t know from a phrase.”
“I know him.”
“You thought he might be dead.”
“I hoped he was.”
I looked through the glass wall of my office at coworkers moving through the hallway.
Nobody knew I was discussing a man who had once planned my disappearance.
“Why contact Martin?”
“To frighten him.”
“Why after all these years?”
“That’s the question.”
“Could it be because Martin’s brother interfered with the transfer?”
“Marcus may not have known Peter did that.”
“If he knows now?”
“Then Martin could be in danger.”
I called Reynolds immediately afterward.
He was irritated.
“You spoke to Sarah.”
“She called.”
“You could have declined.”
“I could also have become a professional tap dancer. Neither happened.”
He ignored me.
“Handwriting results will take time.”
“What about the postmark?”
“Boston distribution center. Could have originated from a wide area.”
“Cameras?”
“Too old.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Working on it.”
I hated waiting.
Three days later, Reynolds arrived at my apartment without warning.
That alone told me something had changed.
I opened the door.
“What happened?”
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“I’m kidding.”
He did not laugh.
Once inside, he walked through the apartment slowly.
“Have you noticed anything unusual?”
“Define unusual.”
“Doors, windows, objects moved, unexplained calls, unfamiliar people.”
“No.”
“Vehicles?”
“I live in an apartment building.”
“Think.”
I did.
A dark sedan had occupied the visitor spaces twice that week.
Probably nothing.
A delivery package had been left at the wrong door.
Nothing.
A man had held the lobby door for me Tuesday.
Nothing.
That was the problem with surveillance.
Once you feared it, normal life became unusable evidence.
“Why are you asking?”
Reynolds removed his phone.
“The handwriting comparison came back.”
“And?”
“Strong similarities. Not enough for formal identification.”
“So probably Marcus.”
“Probably.”
“What else?”
“The card had a partial print.”
“Martin?”
“No.”
“Marcus?”
“We never had a confirmed full set from him under that name.”
“Then useless.”
“Not completely.”
He showed me a photograph.
“Print characteristics match a latent print recovered from locker 417.”
I sat down.
Same person, or at least someone who had handled both objects.
“How old was the locker print?”
“Could have been from the original storage period.”
“And the card proves whoever left it was active last December.”
“Yes.”
“Marcus.”
“Likely.”
The word had barely settled when Reynolds continued.
“There’s more.”
Of course.
“What?”
“Martin received another piece of mail yesterday.”
I stood again.
“What?”
“No card this time.”
“What was it?”
“A photograph.”
“Of who?”
“You.”
For several seconds, I genuinely thought Reynolds had misspoken.
“Me.”
“Yes.”
“When was it taken?”
“Recently.”
“How recently?”
“Based on the setting, within the last two weeks.”
My mouth went dry.
“Where?”
“Outside your office.”
The room changed.
Everything became immediate.
Not eleven years ago.
Not Sarah’s criminal life.
Not Montreal.
Two weeks.
“Show me.”
Reynolds hesitated.
“Show me.”
He turned the phone around.
There I was.
Leaving my office building.
Gray jacket.
Laptop bag.
Coffee in my right hand.
I remembered the morning because I had spilled some coffee inside my car.
The photograph had been taken from across the street.
On the back, handwritten:
STILL CLEAN.
I stared at it.
The phrase connected directly to Marianne Holt’s old report.
HUSBAND VERIFIED. NO KNOWLEDGE. KEEP CLEAN.
“Is that Marcus’s handwriting?”
“Looks similar.”
“Why send it to Martin?”
“Maybe to show he knows we’re talking.”
“But how would he know?”
Reynolds looked toward my windows.
“We’re trying to answer that.”
Fear came differently than I expected.
Not panic.
Anger.
“He followed me.”
“Someone did.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Turn everything into cautious grammar.”
“My job requires cautious grammar.”
“My life doesn’t.”
He sat opposite me.
“We’re assigning surveillance.”
“To me?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“That isn’t optional.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“Then it sounds optional.”
“Someone connected to a man who planned your death recently photographed you. This isn’t the time to prove independence.”
That shut me up.
“What about Martin?”
“Protection is being discussed.”
“And Sarah?”
“She’s in a secure federal facility.”
“Marcus once worked around people like that.”
“He isn’t walking into a federal prison.”
I wanted to believe him.
“Does Elena Ward know?”
“We haven’t contacted her.”
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t yet know whether this is Marcus, someone working for Ward, or someone deliberately imitating Marcus.”
“Who would do that?”
“Someone who wants us looking in the wrong direction.”
That possibility had become depressingly familiar.
The next week altered my routine.
Not visibly.
That was Reynolds’s instruction.
Go to work.
Shop normally.
Don’t scan every parking lot.
Don’t confront anyone.
Invisible teams watched instead.
I hated knowing they were there.
Then, on Thursday evening, someone finally made contact.
I had stopped at a grocery store.
I was choosing coffee when a woman beside me said, “That brand tastes burned.”
I glanced at her.
Early sixties.
Silver-blond hair.
Dark coat.
Expensive but understated.
“I’ve survived worse.”
She smiled.
“So I’ve heard.”
Everything inside me stopped.
She picked up another bag of coffee.
“Try this one.”
I did not move.
“Do I know you?”
“No.”
“Do you know me?”
“Yes.”
My pulse accelerated.
“Who are you?”
She placed the coffee into my cart.
“Elena Ward.”
There are names that become so dangerous in your imagination that hearing them spoken aloud feels impossible.
I looked toward the aisle entrance.
She noticed.
“Your federal friends are outside.”
My stomach tightened.
“You know about them.”
“I knew before I approached.”
“Then you wanted them to see you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m tired of being watched from a distance.”
I gripped the cart handle.
“You contacted me years ago.”
“As Marianne Holt?”
“Yes.”
A faint smile.
“That wasn’t me.”
“Someone working for you.”
“At the time.”
“Who?”
“Marianne was a real woman.”
“Where is she?”
“Dead.”
The answer was so calm that I felt cold.
“How?”
“Cancer.”
I had expected violence.
Ward saw that.
“Not every death belongs to us.”
“Us?”
“People you’ve turned into monsters in your head.”
“Marcus planned to kill me.”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Did you think I stole your money?”
“For several months.”
“And then?”
“I concluded you were exactly what you appeared to be.”
“A boring husband.”
“Painfully.”
Despite myself, I almost smiled.
“Why are you here?”
Ward looked at the shelves.
“Because Marcus is alive.”
The statement was not a theory.
“You know?”
“I saw him.”
“When?”
“Six weeks ago.”
My grip tightened.
“Where?”
“Boston.”
“Why didn’t you tell federal investigators?”
“I don’t work for them.”
“Why tell me?”
“Because he asked about you.”
The aisle suddenly felt narrow.
“What did he ask?”
“Whether you still spoke to Sarah.”
“What did you say?”
“That I didn’t know.”
“Was that true?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“He wanted to know whether you had found Martin.”
I stared at her.
“He knew we were looking.”
“Apparently.”
“How?”
Ward’s expression hardened.
“That is what concerns me.”
“You’re concerned.”
“Marcus should not have access to current investigative information.”
“Unless someone is feeding him.”
“Yes.”
“Federal law enforcement?”
“Possibly.”
I thought of Reynolds.
Then immediately hated myself for it.
Ward noticed the hesitation.
“Trust is difficult after Sarah, isn’t it?”
“Don’t use my marriage as leverage.”
“I’m not.”
“You used me before.”
“I investigated you.”
“Through lies.”
“You married a professional money launderer. Ordinary introductions were no longer available.”
The sentence angered me because it was partly true.
“What does Marcus want?”
“You.”
“Why?”
“I think you have something.”
“I don’t.”
“He thinks you do.”
“What?”
Ward picked up another bag of coffee and examined the label.
“The missing portion of his insurance.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Neither do I.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
She returned the coffee.
“Believe evidence.”
“Where is Marcus?”
“Gone again.”
“Why not stop him when you saw him?”
Her eyes met mine.
“Because I wanted to know where he would lead me.”
“And?”
“To you.”
I felt a chill.
“He came here?”
“Not directly.”
“Then how?”
“He began asking about the old case.”
“Through who?”
“People who should know better.”
“Names.”
“Not in a grocery aisle.”
I looked toward the store entrance.
“Come talk to Reynolds.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know who inside his world Marcus can see.”
“You expect me to trust you instead.”
“I expect you to trust nobody.”
Officer Martinez had told me almost the same thing years earlier.
Be careful who you trust.
Ward reached into her coat.
I stiffened.
She removed a receipt.
On the back she wrote a phone number.
“Memorize it.”
“I’m not joining your spy network.”
“This isn’t a network.”
“What is it?”
“An emergency number.”
“For what emergency?”
“If Marcus contacts you.”
“Why would I call you instead of police?”
“Call both.”
She handed me the receipt.
“And if he mentions the word ‘Harbor,’ do not answer any questions.”
“Harbor?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
Ward’s face changed.
For the first time, I saw genuine unease.
“Something Sarah hid.”
“From Marcus?”
“From everyone.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
I stared at her.
“You’re telling me Sarah kept another secret.”
Ward gave a humorless smile.
“Surely that can’t surprise you anymore.”
She walked away.
I stood beside the coffee for perhaps ten seconds before Reynolds appeared at the end of the aisle.
He moved quickly.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Who was that?”
I looked toward the corner where Ward had disappeared.
“You really don’t know?”
“No.”
That answer frightened me.
“Elena Ward.”
Reynolds’s face went still.
He reached for his radio.
“She’s gone.”
“What did she say?”
I opened my hand.
The receipt was still there.
“Marcus is alive.”
Reynolds stared at me.
“And he’s looking for something Sarah hid.”
“What?”
I swallowed.
“Harbor.”
Reynolds’s reaction told me the word was not new to him.
