Chapter 8 - The Sheriff's Brother
Dalton Voss had a brother.
His name was Raymond.
Until that morning, I knew nothing about him.
Naomi's investigators found that Raymond Voss had founded a transportation company in 1994.
The company had contracts with county agencies, private shelters, and a now-defunct medical transport provider.
Officially, it specialized in moving medical supplies and nonemergency patients.
Unofficially, Samuel Reed claimed it transported children between facilities without proper records.
Raymond had died in a boating accident eleven years earlier.
At least, that was the official story.
By noon, investigators discovered his death certificate had been signed by the same county medical examiner who certified Samuel Reed's death.
Dr. Howard Pike.
Naomi laid three photographs across the table.
Samuel Reed.
Raymond Voss.
A teenage boy named Caleb Turner.
"All three were declared dead by the same physician."
I studied the boy.
"Who is Caleb?"
"He was seventeen when he disappeared from Mercy House's successor facility."
"When?"
"Last year."
My heart tightened.
"Was his body recovered?"
"No."
"Then how did they certify his death?"
"That's one of several questions we need to answer."
I looked at the photographs.
"Have you located Dr. Pike?"
Naomi shook her head.
"He left town yesterday."
"After my arrest?"
"Within hours."
I leaned back.
Voss had arrested me.
Samuel Reed had been discovered alive.
And now another man tied to the records had vanished.
Every new piece of information made the original incident seem less random.
But something still bothered me.
Why would Voss arrest someone whose identity he supposedly didn't know?
Had he acted out of prejudice and arrogance?
Had he been instructed to detain me?
Or had someone placed me in his path specifically to expose him?
I asked Naomi.
"Did you establish where the armed robbery report originated?"
Her expression changed.
"Yes."
I waited.
"There was no armed robbery."
"I assumed as much."
"But a dispatch entry was created at 11:43 a.m."
"What did it say?"
"Female suspect. Black. Midforties. Denim jacket. Traveling alone."
I stared at her.
That was my exact description.
"Who entered it?"
"A dispatcher named Linda Marsh."
"Have you spoken with her?"
"She says the order came directly from Sheriff Voss."
"Did he tell her why?"
"He claimed the woman was involved in a federal fraud investigation."
I almost laughed.
A federal fraud investigation.
Against a federal judge.
With no warrant.
No case number.
No notifying agency.
It was absurd.
And yet it had been sufficient for his officers to act.
Naomi placed another document on the table.
"There's something more."
The dispatch entry had been modified eleven minutes after my arrest.
The new text read:
SUBJECT MAY BE ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.
I looked up.
"Who changed it?"
Naomi hesitated.
"The modification was made using Deputy Cole's login."
I felt my chest tighten.
"Ethan?"
"We're examining whether his credentials were used by someone else."
I remembered the young deputy's frightened face.
His apology.
His missing father.
And the way he'd unlocked the basement.
"Where is he now?"
"Being interviewed."
"Has he requested counsel?"
"Yes."
I nodded.
"Good."
Naomi studied me.
"You trust him?"
"I don't know him well enough to answer."
"Fair."
"But I know he was afraid of his sheriff."
She folded the document.
"Fear doesn't always produce innocence."
"No," I said.
"Sometimes it produces silence."
That afternoon, investigators searched Raymond Voss's former business property.
They found an abandoned warehouse, several empty transport cages, and a locked filing room.
Inside the filing room were records documenting payments to a nonprofit called the Children's Hope Initiative.
Millions of dollars.
Spanning more than a decade.
And at least some appeared to correspond to minors whose custody histories contained unexplained gaps.
The evidence was disturbing.
But the next discovery was worse.
A series of handwritten invoices included the same notation.
R.V. — SPECIAL DELIVERY.
Each invoice listed a date, a destination, and a number.
No names.
No explanations.
Just numbers.
On one page, dated August 20, 1997, the number was four.
The same number of children declared dead in the Mercy House fire.
I felt sick.
Naomi looked at the document.
"We need to establish what these numbers refer to."
I nodded.
Then she turned to the final page.
There was only one entry.
A date.
A destination.
And a handwritten note.
OCTOBER 28, 2026 — WHITLOCK.
Today's date.
My surname.
And beside it, a destination:
OLD MERCY HOUSE PROPERTY.
I stared at the page.
Naomi immediately called her team.
"Get units to that property."
Then she looked at me.
"Someone planned something involving you today."
I swallowed.
"Or wanted us to believe they did."
She nodded.
Before either of us could speak again, her phone rang.
She listened.
Her face hardened.
"Repeat that."
A pause.
Then:
"When?"
She ended the call.
"Amara."
Something in her voice frightened me.
"What?"
"They found the vehicle used by the woman from the hospital."
"Evelyn?"
"We don't know yet."
"Where?"
"At the old Mercy House property."
My throat tightened.
Naomi continued.
"The vehicle was abandoned."
"And?"
"There's blood on the driver's seat."
I stood.
"Is she alive?"
"We don't know."
Naomi's voice softened.
"But they found something addressed to you."
"What?"
"A child's red hair ribbon."
I stared at her.
"And a note."
May you like
She read it slowly.
"I SAVED YOU ONCE. NOW DON'T LET THEM BURY ME AGAIN."
