Danielle stared at the envelope.
Her mother had died eleven years earlier.
Harbor Point had not publicly existed under that name eleven years earlier.
Yet somehow Evelyn Brooks had known Richard might come back.
Danielle tore open the envelope.
Inside was a letter.
And a photograph.
She looked at the photograph first.
Her mother stood beside a much younger Richard Whitmore.
Between them was a third man Danielle didn't recognize.
All three were standing beside an industrial waterfront site.
On the back her mother had written a date.
And beneath the date:
He finally agreed to tell the truth.
Danielle unfolded the letter.
The first line made her sit down.
Dani, if you are reading this, Richard Whitmore has probably found a way to restart the project we stopped.
Her phone rang.
Danielle jumped.
Unknown number.
She stared at it.
It stopped.
Then a text appeared.
No name.
No introduction.
Just one sentence.
Whatever you found in Evelyn's files, do not give it to Liang Chen.
Danielle's blood ran cold.
Because only four people knew she'd gone looking for that binder.
Danielle.
Her father.
Liang.
And Richard Whitmore.
Then another message arrived.
This one contained a photograph.
Taken less than a minute earlier.
Danielle standing inside her own kitchen.
Photographed through the apartment window.
And underneath it were four words:
Close the blue binder.
Part 2: The Name Inside Her Mother's Letter
Danielle didn't move.
The phone remained in her hand.
The photograph filled the screen.
Her kitchen.
Her table.
The blue binder.
Herself.
Someone had taken it from outside.
Danielle lived on the second floor.
Across the narrow street stood a parking garage.
She looked toward the window.
Then immediately stepped away.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Another message appeared.
Do not call Richard.
That confused her.
If Richard had sent the message, why tell her not to call Richard?
Danielle grabbed the binder, the envelope, and the photograph.
Then she called 911.
She did not investigate.
She did not run outside.
She did not behave like someone in a thriller who forgot that dangerous situations became more dangerous when frightened people tried to solve them alone.
She locked the door.
Moved away from the windows.
Waited.
Seattle police arrived eleven minutes later.
Officers checked the parking structure.
Nobody was there.
Security cameras showed a dark sedan entering approximately twenty minutes before Danielle arrived home and leaving moments after she called 911.
The license plate wasn't readable.
An officer photographed the messages.
Danielle gave him Richard's name.
Then Liang's.
Then she called her father.
Harold answered sleepily.
“Dani?”
“Dad, listen carefully.”
Something in her voice woke him immediately.
“What happened?”
“I found Mom's binder.”
Silence.
Danielle closed her eyes.