Melinda’s attorney objected to another interview.
Ruiz did not care.
A photograph potentially connected to a decades-old missing-person case changed the stakes.
By ten that night, Melinda sat in an interview room again.
Her bruises had darkened.
Her hair was tied back.
She looked smaller without the confidence she had always worn around me.
Ruiz placed Laura Pike’s photograph from an old missing-person report on the table.
Melinda looked at it.
Then at Ruiz.
“I don’t know her.”
“Victor Jr. gave you a photograph.”
Silence.
“Aaron says he did.”
Melinda’s attorney leaned toward her.
“You do not have to answer.”
She ignored him.
“Yes.”
My pulse quickened.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t have it anymore.”
“Who does?”
“No one.”
“What does that mean?”
“I hid it.”
“Where?”
Melinda looked toward the mirror.
She knew I might be behind it.
“Somewhere Kirsten already searched.”
I frowned.
Ruiz did too.
“Explain.”
“The hospital.”
My stomach tightened.
“What hospital?”
“St. Matthew’s.”
The place where all of this had surfaced.
The place Connor had smirked about having a son.
The place Evan had appeared.
The place Melinda had tried to leave with Noah.
“Where in the hospital?”
“A locker.”
“Whose?”
Melinda swallowed.
“Kirsten’s.”
I stepped closer to the glass.
Ruiz’s expression hardened.
“You placed evidence in Dr. Sinclair’s workplace?”
“I needed somewhere Victor couldn’t access.”
“You had access?”
“I knew her old locker code.”
Of course she did.
Years earlier, Melinda had brought me clothes after an overnight shift.
I had given her the code.
One more harmless thing that had become a weapon.
“What locker?”
“Physicians’ changing room. Number 118.”
That had been mine before the hospital renovated the staff area.
I had not used it in almost a year.
“Why would the photograph still be there?”
“I put it behind the back panel.”
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
Before Noah’s paternity collapsed.
Before Victor Senior died.
“What made you hide it then?”
“Victor Jr. was getting paranoid.”
“About what?”
“Aaron.”
“What about Aaron?”
“He kept asking questions about Laura.”
“Did Victor know Aaron was investigating him?”
“Eventually.”
“Why give you the photograph?”
“He didn’t give it to me to keep.”
“What did he want?”
“He told me to burn it.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Melinda looked toward the mirror again.
“Because by then I knew people around Victor had a habit of disappearing.”
That answer landed heavily.
“You thought he might kill you.”
“Yes.”
“So you kept leverage.”
“Yes.”
Ruiz asked, “What does the photograph show?”
Melinda closed her eyes.
“Laura standing outside the cabin.”
“With Thomas Sinclair?”
“Yes.”
“Victor Senior?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
A pause.
“One woman.”
My heart accelerated.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Describe her.”
“Older than Laura. Maybe forties.”
“Hair?”
“Dark.”
“Anything distinctive?”
“She was wearing a medical uniform.”
I felt the floor disappear beneath me.
Ruiz asked, “Nurse?”
“Maybe.”
“What kind of uniform?”
“White coat over scrubs.”
Kenneth looked at me.
My grandmother had not worked in medicine.
Neither had anyone else I knew in the family at that time.
“Was there writing on the photograph?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Four names and a date.”
“Names?”
“Thomas. Victor. Laura.”
“And the fourth?”
Melinda frowned.
“I think Evelyn.”
Ruiz immediately ordered officers to St. Matthew’s.
I called hospital administration.
At eleven-fifteen, security opened the old physicians’ changing area.
Locker 118 remained unused because its latch had broken during renovation.
The rear metal panel looked ordinary.
Until maintenance removed it.
Inside was a plastic envelope.
One photograph.
One folded note.
And a microcassette.
The photograph reached us digitally first.
I stared at my grandfather.
He was younger than I remembered him.
Standing beside Victor Senior.
Laura Pike stood several feet away.
Nineteen.
Long dark hair.
Arms crossed.
Angry even in a still image.
Beside her stood a woman wearing a white coat.
Her face was turned partly toward the camera.
On the back:
Thomas / Victor / Laura / Evelyn — Cabin — 11:43 p.m.
The date was the night Laura disappeared.
Ruiz ran facial recognition only after obtaining authorization.
The result arrived shortly after midnight.
Dr. Evelyn Mercer.
I stared at the name.
“Mercer?”
Kenneth nodded.
“Samuel Mercer’s wife.”
Evan’s grandmother.
A physician.
Now deceased.
Four families again.
Sinclair.
Hale.
Pike.
Mercer.
Every time we thought the circle was complete, another connection appeared.
“What was Evelyn doing there?” I asked.
Ruiz searched archived licensing records.
“Internal medicine.”
“Any connection to Daniel Pike?”
“Unknown.”
Kenneth pointed toward the microcassette.
“That may tell us.”
The cassette was too old to play casually without risking damage.
A forensic audio specialist was called.
We waited.
At one in the morning, Evan arrived.
He had left Noah with a court-approved caregiver after Ruiz contacted him.
When he saw the photograph of his grandmother, he sat down.
“That’s Evelyn.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“She died when I was nine.”
“Did she ever mention Laura Pike?”
“No.”
“The Sinclair cabin?”
“No.”
“Thomas?”
He stared at my grandfather.
“I’ve never seen him before.”
“What about Victor Hale?”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Why was my grandmother with yours?”
“Mine isn’t in the photograph.”
“Your grandfather.”
“I don’t know.”
Evan studied the image.
“My grandmother hated cameras.”
“What?”
“She almost never let anyone photograph her.”
“Why?”
“She said pictures outlived explanations.”
Kenneth looked at Ruiz.
“That sounds specific.”
Evan nodded.
“She said strange things when she got older.”
“Such as?”
He thought.
“Once she told my father that if anyone asked about a girl by the lake, he should say he knew nothing.”
No one moved.
“Girl?”
“Yes.”
“Did your father ask who?”
“He thought she was confused.”
Another family dismissing an older woman because the truth sounded inconvenient.
I thought of my grandmother’s blue book.
The audio specialist arrived at 2:06.
The cassette was intact.
Its label was blank.
After cleaning and stabilization, the recording began.
Static.
Wind.
Then a woman’s voice.
Young.
Angry.
“You told me my father stole from clients.”
Laura.
We could not prove it yet.
But everyone in the room knew.
A man answered.
My grandfather.
I recognized his voice from childhood home videos.
“Laura, lower your voice.”
“No.”
Another man.
Victor Senior.
“You do not understand what you found.”
“I understand numbers.”
“Not these.”
“I understand my father died after threatening you.”
Silence.
Then Evelyn Mercer:
“Laura, sit down.”
“I’m not sitting down.”
“You have a concussion.”
The room went still.
Concussion.
Ruiz looked at Evan.
The recording continued.
Laura:
“You think because I hit my head I’m stupid?”
Evelyn:
“No. I think you need a hospital.”
Laura:
“And explain how I got hurt?”
Victor:
“You fell.”
Laura laughed.
A terrible sound.
“No. Your son pushed me.”
My skin prickled.
Victor Jr.
At nineteen? He would have been around the same age.
My grandfather said, “Victor, is that true?”
Victor Senior did not answer.
Laura continued.
“He followed me here.”
Evelyn:
“Where is he now?”
“Gone.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
The recording crackled.
Then Laura said:
“He knows I found his trust records.”
Victor Senior’s voice changed.
“What records?”
“The ones showing you took his money.”
Silence.
That was the moment.
The beginning of Victor Jr.’s knowledge.
Not years later.
That night.
Laura had discovered the theft from his custodial trust.
Victor Senior said:
“Give them to me.”
“No.”
“Laura.”
“No.”
Then my grandfather:
“Where are they?”
“I mailed copies.”
“To whom?”
Laura did not answer.
Victor Senior demanded again.
“Who did you send them to?”
Static swallowed several seconds.
Then Evelyn said:
“She needs medical attention.”
Laura:
“I need a police station.”
The tape stopped.
No one spoke.
“That’s it?” Evan asked.
The technician shook his head.
“There’s more tape, but it may have been recorded later.”
He advanced carefully.
A second segment began.
My grandfather’s voice.
Quiet.
“We should call police.”
Victor Senior:
“And tell them what?”
“That she left.”
“She is injured.”
“She walked out.”
Evelyn:
“She should not be driving.”
My grandfather:
“She didn’t take her car.”
That mattered.
Laura had left the cabin on foot.
Victor:
“My son took his car.”
Silence.
Evelyn whispered:
“Oh God.”
My pulse quickened.
Victor Jr. had followed Laura away from the cabin.
The next voice was my grandfather.
“We have to find them.”
The recording ended.
Ruiz immediately pulled the original missing-person file.
Laura’s abandoned car had been found at a bus station thirty miles south.
Everyone assumed she had left voluntarily.
But according to the tape, she had never taken the car from the cabin.
“Someone moved it,” Kenneth said.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Ruiz looked at the photograph.
“We need Victor Jr. to answer.”
He refused.
Even when prosecutors told him the recording existed.
Even when they told him Laura Pike’s disappearance was being reopened.
His attorney ended the interview.
At four in the morning, I finally went home under police escort.
The house felt violated.
Aaron’s search had left boxes open upstairs.
The guest-room closet looked as if someone had torn through my past looking for a weapon.
I sat on the edge of my bed.
I could not sleep.
At five-twenty, my phone rang.
Evan.
“I’m sorry.”
“What happened?”
“Noah woke up.”
I sat straighter.
“Is he okay?”
“Yes. But he keeps saying something.”
“He’s one, Evan.”
“I know.”
“What?”
“Blue.”
I stared at the dark room.
“Blue?”
“He keeps pointing at the bag Melinda packed for him and saying blue.”
My skin prickled.
“What bag?”
“The diaper bag police returned.”
“What color?”
“Gray.”
I stood.
“What’s inside?”
“Normal stuff.”
“Empty it.”
“What?”
“Empty it now.”
I heard movement.
A zipper.
Objects placed on a table.
Diapers.
Wipes.
Bottle.
Sweater.
Toy.
Then Evan stopped.
“What?”
“There’s something sewn into the lining.”
My heart began pounding.
“Don’t open it.”
“Why?”
“Call Ruiz.”
Twenty minutes later, police collected the bag.
Inside the lining was a small blue flash drive.
Melinda had hidden one more piece of evidence with Noah.
By seven, technicians accessed it.
The first folder contained financial records.
The second contained photographs.
The third had one word:
LAURA.
Inside were scanned letters.
Postcards.
The supposed messages Laura sent after disappearing.
And a document none of us expected.
A birth certificate.
Issued eleven months after Laura Pike vanished.
Mother:
Laura Anne Pike.
Father:
Not listed.
Child:
Melanie Anne Pike.
Kenneth stared at the screen.
“Melanie.”
My pulse stopped.
“No.”
Ruiz looked at me.
I already knew.
Melinda.
Melanie.
The birth date matched.
The age matched.
And attached to the certificate was a later name-change order.
Melanie Anne Pike.
Changed at age four.
New name:
Melinda Anne Travis.
Evan sat down hard.
I could barely breathe.
Melinda had not been recruited into the Pike family’s revenge by chance.
She was the missing woman’s daughter.
Aaron and Rebecca were not merely her handlers.
They were her cousins.
And Laura Pike had survived long enough after disappearing to give birth.
The question was no longer whether Laura had left the cabin alive.
She had.
The question was what happened to her after Melinda was born.
Click here to continue reading: PART 19: MELINDA’S FIRST NAME
Sixteen Days After Walter Died, His Hospice Nurse Called With a Name I Had Never Heard Before
Part 18 of 20
