At the far end of the street, a black SUV idled near the entrance.
Someone had arrived before him.
The old municipal hospital had been converted into offices, but one wing remained sealed while the city debated what to do with its records. Thomas returned the next morning with Elena, who had obtained a legitimate appointment to review public archival procedures. Samuel waited nearby in a café, ready to leave if either of them called.
The clerk at the archive desk was tired, underpaid, and suspicious of anyone who arrived with a prepared list. Elena explained that she was researching historical medical transfers connected to a public inquiry. She did not mention Daniel’s name until the clerk had checked the temporary code Weller had supplied.
The computer returned no result.
“Could be under the old paper index,” the clerk said. “That collection is in the basement. It hasn’t been fully digitized.”
The basement smelled of dust and disinfectant. Rows of boxes filled metal shelves. A narrow desk stood beneath a flickering light. The clerk brought them three boxes marked with dates from the week of the ambush.
Elena sorted the index cards while Thomas checked the transfer numbers. It took nearly an hour to find the code from Weller’s form. The entry referred to an unidentified male patient transferred from a military field hospital to a civilian clinic. A discharge record had been filed three days later under the same code.
The patient had left against medical advice.
The signature was illegible, but a note in the margin read: “Escort arranged by V. Sloane.”
Elena photographed the card. “Sloane again.”
Thomas stared at the phrase. “If Daniel was alive, Sloane may have helped him leave—or taken control of him.”
The clerk cleared his throat. “You’re not allowed to photograph the original records.”
Elena put her phone away. “We’ll submit a formal request.”
They left copies of the request with the clerk and went upstairs. In the lobby, Thomas noticed a man in a navy suit reading a newspaper upside down. When Thomas looked directly at him, the man folded it and walked out.
“Are we being followed?” Elena asked.
“Yes.”
“Should we split up?”
“Not here. We leave together, then take different routes.”
They walked into the street and turned toward a crowded market. Thomas let Elena enter a bookshop while he continued past the next corner. The man in the navy suit appeared behind him, keeping his distance. Thomas crossed at a green light, entered a busy department store, and came out through a side exit. The man was waiting outside.
“You’re persistent,” Thomas said.
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Then help me understand it.”
The man’s expression stayed blank. “You think the truth will restore what you lost. It won’t. It will only give you a new reason to suffer.”
“People who say that usually know what the truth is.”
The man stepped closer. “Leave Daniel Mercer in the past.”
Thomas did not move. “You know where he is.”
“I know what happened when he refused to cooperate.”
The man’s eyes flicked toward the road. A motorcycle passed, and for a second the sound filled the space between them. When Thomas looked back, the man had disappeared into the crowd.
That evening, Elena received a response to her archive request. The city had located a second document, but it could not release it without review because the file contained personal medical information. The review would take several weeks.
“Several weeks is too long,” Thomas said.
“I know. I’m asking the hospital’s legal department for a redacted copy. It’s the proper route.”
“And if they refuse?”
“Then I write about the refusal, carefully. The public record shows a transfer happened. That alone matters.”
Thomas understood the value of patience, but he also knew how often bureaucracy became a hiding place for people with influence. He agreed to wait one day for Elena’s request to be processed.
At Apex, Preston was helping clean the mats after class. He had arrived early and stayed late, no longer treating the gym as a stage. When Thomas passed, Preston asked whether he could learn a basic escape from a wrist grab.
Thomas showed him the movement slowly, explaining leverage rather than strength. Preston practiced until he stopped trying to overpower the grip and learned to turn into the opening.
“You’re improving,” Thomas said.
“Because you keep telling me what I’m doing wrong.”
“That’s how improvement works.”
Preston wiped his forehead. “My father says you’re trying to destroy him.”
“I’m trying to find out what happened to my friend.”
“He says you’re using the gym to get close to him.”
Thomas looked at him. “Is that what you believe?”
Preston thought for a long moment. “I don’t know what I believe about my father anymore.”
“That’s not the same as knowing he’s guilty.”
“I know.”
“Good. Keep that distinction.”
Later that night, a message arrived from an unknown number. It contained a photograph of a man entering a small coastal bus terminal. The man’s face was older, thinner, and partly obscured by a cap, but his left shoulder sat slightly higher than his right.
The caption contained two words:
HE LEFT.
Thomas enlarged the image until the pixels blurred. He could not prove the man was Daniel, but he felt the old certainty stir inside him.