Bennett entered the room.
"We've confirmed the identity of the man from the photograph. His name is Adrian Cross. He worked for Northfield Environmental Services from 1992 to 1998."
"Was he a relative of Claire?" I asked.
"No. He was a former employee who became involved with the company director."
"Claire?"
Bennett nodded.
"According to the records, they had a daughter together."
"Lily."
"Yes."
My mother looked down.
"Claire never told me."
Bennett placed another document on the table.
"There's more. We found a death certificate for Lily Cross."
I looked at him.
"When?"
"1998."
"How did she die?"
"According to the certificate, she drowned in a private reservoir."
My mother shook her head.
"That's a lie."
"Why?"
"Because I saw her in 2001."
The room went quiet.
"Where?" Bennett asked.
"At the old pumping station."
"What was she doing there?"
"She was with Robert."
I looked at the photograph again.
The little girl had survived.
"Why didn't you tell anyone?"
"Because Robert asked me not to. He said she had to remain officially dead."
"Why?"
My mother met my eyes.
"Because Adrian was looking for her."
Bennett arranged for officers to search the old pumping station.
I insisted on going.
He refused.
Then my mother said something that changed his mind.
"There's a second entrance beneath the river. The key opens it."
Bennett looked at her.
"How do you know?"
"Robert showed me the entrance in 1994. He said it was the only way into the holding chamber without passing through the main tunnel."
"Why didn't you tell us earlier?"
"Because I thought it had been sealed."
"Has it?"
She shook her head.
"I don't know."
Bennett studied her for a long moment.
Then he turned to me.
"You're not going inside unless I say so."
I nodded.
He knew I was lying.
We drove to the river just after sunset.
The entrance was hidden beneath an old concrete platform, half-covered by weeds and broken branches. The metal hatch had no visible handle, only a circular lock marked with the three-line symbol.
I took out the key.
It fitted perfectly.
For a moment, it wouldn't turn.
Then something clicked.
The hatch opened.
A narrow ladder descended into darkness.
Bennett sent two officers down first. They checked the immediate area and reported that the tunnel appeared stable.
We followed.
The air grew colder as we descended. Water dripped from the ceiling, echoing through the narrow passage. Old pipes ran along one wall, their surfaces covered in mineral deposits.
At the bottom was a corridor.
On the left, a faded sign read:
NORTHFIELD ENVIRONMENTAL — RESTRICTED ACCESS
On the right was a row of metal doors.
Each had a number.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
I stopped.
The service compartment.
Bennett examined the lock.
"Is this it?"
I nodded.
The key turned.
The door opened.
Inside was a small room filled with filing cabinets and rusted equipment. A desk stood against the back wall. On it lay a stack of folders wrapped in plastic.
I opened the top folder.
It contained transport records from 1993 and 1994.
Truck numbers.
Dates.
Names.
Payment authorizations.
And a list of locations.
One entry appeared repeatedly.
HOLDING CHAMBER C.
Below it were names.
Daniel Ruiz.
Elena Ruiz.
Lily Cross.
And finally:
ROBERT HALE — TEMPORARY TRANSFER.
I stared at the page.
My father had been inside this system.
Bennett took photographs of every document.
"There's enough here to reopen the entire investigation."
I turned another page.
A handwritten note had been clipped to the back.
If the chamber is opened, do not release Subject C until the water pressure has been stabilized.
I frowned.
"What's Subject C?"
Bennett looked at the note.
"I don't know."
From somewhere deeper in the tunnel came a metallic sound.
A door opening.
One of the officers raised his flashlight.
"Did you hear that?"
We all listened.
Then a voice came through the darkness.
"Don't come any closer."
It was a woman.
Young.
Frightened.
Bennett raised his weapon.
"Police. Identify yourself."
The voice answered:
"My name is Lily Cross."
My mother stepped forward.
"Lily?"
A small figure appeared at the far end of the corridor.
She was no longer a child.
She was a woman in her thirties, wearing a dark jacket and carrying a flashlight.
Her face was thin, her hair cut short, and a pale scar ran along her cheek.
She looked at my mother.
Then at me.
"You're Robert's son," she said.
"Yes."
She nodded slowly.