Now he was frightened for a different reason.
The notebook contained something important enough that a veteran deputy had brought it to an abandoned building and questioned a teenager about its contents.
Whatever his father had discovered, it had not disappeared with him.
And whoever had taken Marcus had made a serious mistake.
They had given him back the one thing he had been searching for.
His father's handwriting.
His father's records.
And perhaps the only remaining evidence that could explain what had happened on the night Michael Reed died.
Marcus approached the desk and opened the notebook.
He began reading from the first page.
By the time the federal team reached the abandoned maintenance depot, the rain had stopped.
The building stood behind a chain-link fence on a narrow access road bordered by overgrown grass and rusted machinery. Its windows were dark, and the sign above the entrance had lost most of its lettering.
A faded logo on the side of the structure identified it as a former county vehicle maintenance facility.
The county had supposedly sold the property six years earlier.
Yet the fleet records indicated that a sheriff's department vehicle had stopped there the previous night.
Agent Walsh stood outside the gate while two investigators photographed the surrounding area.
“Any signs of recent activity?” she asked.
One investigator pointed toward the ground.
“Tire tracks. Several sets. At least one appears relatively fresh, although we'll need a specialist to assess them.”
Another agent examined the gate.
“The chain is old, but the lock isn't.”
Walsh crouched to inspect it.
The lock was relatively new, with a bright metal surface that contrasted sharply with the rust surrounding the gatepost.
“Photograph it. Don't touch it until we've established our authority to enter.”
She checked her phone.
Evelyn had sent a message asking for an update.
Walsh replied that the team had located the property and was working to establish whether anyone was inside.
Then she called the county property office.
The records were confusing.
The maintenance depot had been transferred to a private company called Bellhaven Industrial Holdings. The company had no public office in the county, and its registered mailing address belonged to a commercial service that handled paperwork for hundreds of businesses.
The transfer documents were signed by a county official who had retired years earlier.
One page contained a reference to an outstanding environmental assessment.
Another listed the building as vacant.
Neither document explained why a sheriff's department vehicle had visited the property the previous night.
Walsh requested the original transfer file and the company's ownership information.
Then she contacted the prosecutor overseeing the investigation.
She explained the vehicle data, the connection to Marcus Reed, and the possibility that the property might be relevant to an ongoing detention.
The prosecutor reviewed the information and authorized the appropriate emergency steps, subject to the facts and legal requirements presented.
Walsh waited until the necessary authorization was confirmed.
Only then did the team enter.
The first room was empty.
Dust covered the floor, and the walls were marked by water stains. An old workbench stood near the back entrance. Several shelves contained rusted bolts, discarded hoses, and broken tools.
The second room contained a row of lockers.
One had been forced open.
Inside lay a county-issued jacket, a pair of work gloves, and a plastic identification card belonging to Aaron Pike.
Walsh photographed the contents before allowing an investigator to document them.
“Could have been discarded,” one agent said.
“Could have been planted,” Walsh replied. “Could have been left here for any number of reasons. Record what we find. Don't decide what it means yet.”
They continued through the building.
In a storage room near the eastern wall, an investigator discovered a recently installed security camera.
Its wiring disappeared through a hole drilled into the ceiling.
The device was connected to a small recording unit hidden behind a cabinet.
“Agent Walsh.”
She approached.
The recording unit was powered on.
Its screen displayed a list of files, several of which had been created during the previous night.
Walsh leaned closer.
The most recent recording showed the entrance to the building.
A dark SUV pulled through the gate.
A man stepped out of the driver's seat.
Even with the poor image quality, the investigators recognized him.
Aaron Pike.
He opened the rear door.
A second person emerged.
The image was grainy, but the person's height and build were consistent with Marcus Reed.
Walsh felt a wave of relief so sharp that she had to remind herself not to mistake it for certainty.
“Preserve the recording,” she said. “Make a forensic copy. We need the original file and the system metadata.”
An investigator began documenting the equipment.
Walsh watched the recording continue.
Pike led Marcus toward the building.
The teenager appeared to be walking under his own power, but he kept looking over his shoulder.
At the entrance, Pike stopped and spoke to him.
The camera had no audio.
Marcus shook his head.
Pike pointed toward the door.
Marcus hesitated before entering.
The recording ended.
Walsh checked the timestamp.
The footage had been recorded less than twenty-four hours earlier.