Chapter 5 - The Dead Woman's Sister
I called Agent Sloan before I called Daniel.
That alone told me how much my life had changed.
A year earlier, I would have called Jason.
I would have handed him the problem and accepted whatever explanation he provided.
Now I understood that the person who always promised to protect me had often been the danger.
Sloan answered on the second ring.
"Are you safe?"
"Yes."
"What's wrong?"
I described the message.
She asked me not to forward it or alter the original email.
Instead, she guided me through preserving what was visible while her technical team arranged to examine the message through an appropriate collection process.
I sent Daniel a separate warning.
Then I sat at the kitchen table staring at the photograph.
The woman looked like Eleanor.
The posture.
The coat.
The sharp profile.
But photographs could be misleading.
Dates could be changed.
And I had learned the hard way that a convincing image wasn't necessarily proof.
Sloan called back forty minutes later.
"Do not assume that photograph is authentic."
"Do you know who sent it?"
"Not yet."
"Do you think Eleanor might be alive?"
There was a pause.
"We have no reliable evidence of that."
"But the death certificate—"
"Is something we can verify."
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
"Rebecca, I attended her funeral."
"I know."
"There was a coffin."
"I know."
"I put flowers on it."
Her voice remained steady.
"Iris, grief makes uncertainty especially painful."
"Don't build a conclusion around one anonymous message."
I wanted to argue.
Instead, I asked whether the investigators had entered the annex.
"They're working through the process."
"Have they found anything?"
"I can't discuss operational details yet."
After we ended the call, I walked into the bathroom.
I stood before the mirror.
The scars along my collarbone caught the overhead light.
For years, I had looked at them as evidence of everything Jason took from me.
My freedom.
My confidence.
My sense of safety.
Now I was beginning to see something else.
Survival.
Not beautiful.
Not inspirational.
Simply real.
I had survived things Jason expected to break me.
And I was still here.
At ten seventeen, someone knocked on my apartment door.
Three quick knocks.
Then two slower ones.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I stood perfectly still.
Another knock.
A woman's voice came through the door.
"Iris?"
I recognized the voice.
But that was impossible.
I approached the door without unlocking it.
"Who's there?"
"My name is Marianne Price."
I gripped the deadbolt.
"How did you find me?"
"Daniel Brooks gave me the building address after speaking with Agent Sloan."
That was possible.
But I wasn't opening the door based on a stranger's claim.
"Wait there."
I called Daniel.
He answered immediately.
"Don't open the door yet," he said.
I exhaled.
"Is it really her?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me she was coming?"
"I was about to call."
He explained that Marianne had agreed to meet investigators.
She also wanted to speak with me.
Sloan had arranged for the meeting to occur under controlled conditions, and an investigator was waiting downstairs.
Only after Daniel confirmed those details did I unlock the door.
Marianne Price stood in the hallway wearing a navy raincoat.
She was sixty-one now.
Her dark hair had turned silver at the temples.
But she had Eleanor's eyes.
The resemblance hit me so hard that I had to grip the doorframe.
Marianne looked at me for a long moment.
Then she said, "My sister trusted you."
I stepped aside.
She entered carrying a battered leather handbag.
We sat at the kitchen table.
Neither of us reached for the tea I made.
"I should have called you years ago," I said.
Marianne shook her head.
"You did call."
I stared at her.
"What?"
"Six years ago."
"After Jason hurt you."
I felt a cold sensation in my stomach.
"I don't remember."
"You were in the hospital."
She opened her handbag and removed an old notebook.
"Your call came at 2:16 in the morning."
"You could barely speak."
I looked at the notebook.
Marianne had written the date beside a telephone number.
Below it were several short lines.
Iris afraid.
Jason knows.
Room 417.
Don't trust Reed.
My hands began to shake.
"What did I say?"
Marianne's voice softened.
"You asked whether Eleanor had left me something."
"Had she?"
"Yes."
I held my breath.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because the next day a man came to my house."
"What man?"
"He wore a suit."
"He knew my grandchildren's names."
"He told me Eleanor's death was a tragedy, but accidents could happen to other people."
My throat tightened.
"Did you report it?"
"I did."
"What happened?"
"The police took my statement."
"And?"
"Nothing I could prove came of it."
She looked at me.
"I was frightened."
I knew that feeling.
I knew how fear could make an ordinary decision feel impossible.
Marianne opened her handbag again.
This time she removed a small cloth pouch.
Inside was a brass key.
It had a faded green plastic tag.
A number was stamped into the metal.
417.
My breath caught.
"Eleanor gave you this?"
"Two weeks before she died."
"What does it open?"
"I didn't know."
"Until when?"
Marianne's eyes filled with tears.
"Until last month."
She unfolded a piece of paper.
It was a rental agreement for a private document-storage facility in Philadelphia.
The unit number was 417.
The account had been opened in Eleanor's name nine years earlier.
The rent had been paid in advance through the previous summer.
When the payments stopped, the storage company sent a notice to the estate representative listed in its records.
Marianne.
She had kept the notice.
Then she had contacted federal investigators.
"Why didn't you open the unit?" I asked.
"I tried."
"The company told me I needed additional estate documentation."
"By the time I obtained it, investigators asked me not to disturb anything."
I stared at the key.
For years, I had believed room 417 referred to a hospital patient.
And it might.
But Eleanor had also left a key with the same number.
"Is the unit still there?" I whispered.
Marianne nodded.
"Investigators are preserving it."
I leaned back in my chair.
Eleanor had hidden something.
Not in Jason's laboratory.
Not in her home.
Somewhere outside his reach.
"There's something else," Marianne said.
She reached into the handbag one more time.
This time she removed a photograph of Eleanor.
It was taken at a family barbecue.
Eleanor was laughing.
Her hair was blowing across her face.
Behind her stood a younger woman in a blue dress.
I frowned.
"Who's that?"
"My daughter, Sophie."
I looked closely.
Then the truth struck me.
I had seen Sophie before.
She had been working at Mitchell Medical Technologies during the year Eleanor died.
Not under her real name.
She had been an administrative assistant in the finance department.
Jason called her Emily.
I stared at Marianne.
"Sophie worked for Jason?"
Marianne nodded.
"After Eleanor died."
"Why?"
"Because we wanted to know what happened to her."
My voice dropped.
"We?"
Marianne looked toward the door.
Then she said something that made the room feel suddenly much colder.
"Eleanor knew she was being watched before she died."
"She asked Sophie to help her."
I looked at the photograph again.
"What happened to Sophie?"
Marianne's face crumpled.
"She disappeared three years ago."
I couldn't speak.
Marianne wiped her eyes.
"She left me one voicemail."
"Then she was gone."
"What did the voicemail say?"
Marianne took out her phone.
Her fingers trembled as she found the recording.
She pressed play.
A young woman's voice filled the kitchen.
"Mom, don't call me."
"I found the signatures."
"They're using dead patients."
A muffled sound interrupted her.
Then Sophie spoke again.
"And Iris Mitchell isn't crazy."
"Jason made sure everyone thought she was."
The recording stopped.
I sat frozen.
Marianne looked at me.
"That's why I came."
She leaned forward.
"My daughter believed you."
"Now I need you to help me find her."
Before I could answer, Daniel called.
His voice was urgent.
"Iris, is Marianne still with you?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"Listen carefully."
"The investigators found something at the annex."
My heart raced.
"What?"
"A locked room containing boxes of archived records."
"Was Eleanor's material there?"
"Some of it."
He hesitated.
"But the most important discovery wasn't a document."
"What was it?"
Daniel took a breath.
"A wall calendar."
I stared at the phone.
"A calendar?"
"Someone had marked a date repeatedly."
"Which date?"
He told me.
It was the day Sophie Price disappeared.
May you like
And underneath it, someone had written three words.
She saw everything.
