I sat in the back of his car, staring at the photograph of my father in the hospital.
October 9, 1994.
The date was burned into my mind.
My father had survived the night at the pumping station. He had been taken to Saint Agnes Medical Center, then transferred to Northfield Recovery Center.
Someone had cared for him.
Someone wearing a crescent pendant.
And my mother had known.
"Do you think Claire is alive?" I asked.
Bennett kept his eyes on the road.
"I think we need to verify that she ever existed."
"My mother said she was his sister."
"Your mother also said she believed Robert was dead."
"She saw him alive."
"Yes. Which means we can't accept any single account without evidence."
I looked down at the photograph.
"How do we find Claire?"
"Start with the hospital."
"Northfield?"
"Yes. I have someone checking the archived corporate records."
He paused.
"There's something else. The number that called us earlier was traced to a prepaid phone. It was activated three weeks ago."
"Can you find who bought it?"
"Not yet."
"Then what do we know?"
"That someone wants us to believe your father is still alive."
I looked out at the dark road.
"Do you believe it?"
Bennett didn't answer.
At dawn, we returned to the station.
A detective named Laura Kim had been assigned to help with the old records. She was in her early forties, with short black hair and a habit of tapping her pen against the desk while she read.
She had already prepared a folder.
"Robert Hale," she said. "Born 1960. Admitted to Saint Agnes on October 7, 1994, with multiple injuries. Transferred two days later to Northfield Recovery Center."
"Was he discharged?" I asked.
"According to the hospital ledger, yes."
"When?"
"October 18."
"Where did he go?"
"There's no destination recorded."
"Did he leave voluntarily?"
"There's no signature."
I leaned over the desk.
"Then how can the record say he was discharged?"
Laura turned a page.
"It doesn't say discharged. It says transferred out."
"To where?"
"That's the missing information."
Bennett pointed to another line.
"What's this?"
Laura followed his finger.
"An administrative note. The transfer was authorized by a person named Claire Hale."
My father's surname.
I looked at her.
"His sister."
"Possibly."
"Can you find her?"
"That's what I tried. The problem is that the name Claire Hale appears in several unrelated records. But one record stands out."
She placed a photocopy on the table.
It was a corporate registration from 1993.
NORTHFIELD ENVIRONMENTAL SERVICES.
The registered director was Claire Hale.
The company had shared an office address with Harrow Residential Group.
"She worked for Harrow?" I asked.
"Not directly. The company was a contractor."
"What did it do?"
"Environmental monitoring and waste transportation."
I stared at the document.
"Was it involved in Briar Glen?"
Laura nodded.
"According to one county invoice, Northfield Environmental Services received payment for emergency drainage work during the construction period."
"How much?"
"Forty-eight thousand dollars."
"That's not a small amount."
"No. And the invoice was approved by Edward Mercer."
Bennett folded his arms.
"Can we locate Claire?"
Laura turned to another page.
"There's a residential address listed from 1996. It belongs to a property near the river."
I recognized the road.
It was only a few miles from the old ferry landing.
"Is the house still there?"
"Yes."
Bennett looked at me.
"We'll go there after we get a warrant."
I nodded.
But I was already thinking about the drawing.
The river.
The underground passage.
The second entrance.
And my mother's warning:
Do not let her take you beneath the river.
The house stood at the end of a narrow lane, surrounded by overgrown hedges.
It was a two-story building with faded white paint and a roof that sagged slightly over the porch. A rusted mailbox leaned beside the gate.
There were no cars outside.
Bennett knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again.
The door opened.
A woman stood behind it.
She was in her late sixties, perhaps older. Her hair was silver, cut just below her ears. Her face was narrow, with deep lines around the mouth.
But her eyes were familiar.
I had seen them in the photograph beside my father's hospital bed.
"Claire Hale?" Bennett asked.
The woman looked at him.
"Who wants to know?"
"My name is Officer Bennett. We're investigating events connected to Briar Glen."
Her expression changed.
Then she looked at me.
For a moment, she seemed unable to breathe.