At 3:11, I called Marcus Reed.
Marcus had spent fifteen years investigating corporate fraud before opening his own private firm.
If someone moved money that didn’t belong to them, Marcus could usually find the fingerprints.
He answered on the second ring.
“Whitmore.”
“I need you to reopen something.”
There was a pause.
“The divorce?”
I sat down.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“I was wondering when you’d make this call.”
That irritated me.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I never liked how clean the evidence looked.”
My stomach tightened.
“You never said that.”
“You weren’t interested in hearing it.”
That shut me up.
I looked at the city through my office windows.
“Find Laura Bennett.”
“She changed her name back?”
“I don’t know.”
“And when I find her?”
“Everything.”
I swallowed.
“Where she’s living. Where she’s worked. Medical records if legally obtainable. Public assistance. Hospital records. And I want every piece of evidence from the divorce reexamined.”
“The transfers?”
“Yes.”
“The hotel photos?”
“Yes.”
“The necklace?”
“All of it.”
Marcus hesitated.
Then he asked the question I had been avoiding.
“What happened?”
“I saw her today.”
“And?”
“She had twins.”
Silence.
“How old?”
“I don’t know. Maybe… ten months.”
Marcus understood immediately.
“Grant.”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t know yet.”
“Then find out.”
The first call came that evening.
I was still in my office.
Marcus didn’t bother with small talk.
“I found a hospital record.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What kind?”
“Emergency maternity intake. Eleven months ago.”
I stood.
“What hospital?”
“Wake County Memorial.”
I knew it.
Twenty-five minutes from my house.
“She was pregnant?”
“With twins.”
I sat back down.
My legs suddenly felt unreliable.
