Walsh wrote down his answer.
Then she closed the notebook.
“Your willingness to cooperate is important. It does not erase your actions, and it does not guarantee you any particular outcome. From this point forward, everything you tell us must be truthful and complete.”
“I understand.”
Outside, the light was fading.
The investigators arranged for Marcus to be taken to a secure location where he could rest while the evidence was examined. Thomas agreed to accompany him until a more permanent safety plan could be established. Pike remained with the federal team to give his statement.
Before Marcus left, he returned to the workbench and looked at the notebook one more time.
The pages contained his father's thoughts, warnings, dates, and fragments of a story that had remained unfinished for two years.
Marcus had once believed that understanding his father's death would require discovering a single terrible event.
Now he knew that the truth might consist of hundreds of decisions, each one small enough for the person making it to justify.
A report altered.
A witness ignored.
A document removed.
A threat disguised as advice.
A frightened deputy signing a statement he knew was false.
A public official deciding that a private development project was more important than an honest investigation.
No single decision had created the entire conspiracy.
But together, they had built a wall around it.
And now, piece by piece, the wall was beginning to crack.
As Marcus followed Thomas toward the door, Evelyn called after him.
“Marcus.”
He turned.
“We're going to find out who authorized that transfer. We're going to establish what happened to your father, and we're going to investigate every person whose actions contributed to it.”
He wanted to believe her.
But he had learned that promises were easy to make when the danger belonged to someone else.
“Don't just find out who did it,” he said. “Make sure they can't do it to anyone else.”
Evelyn held his gaze.
“That is exactly what we're trying to do.”
Marcus stepped outside.
Two federal vehicles waited at the curb. An agent opened the rear door of the nearest one, while another checked the street for anything unusual.
Thomas climbed into the front passenger seat.
Marcus took one last look at Bell Electronics.
The small repair shop had been his father's final refuge, the place where Michael had entrusted the evidence he could not safely keep at home. It had become the place where Marcus learned that the past was not as distant as he had believed.
As the vehicle pulled away, he watched the storefront disappear behind them.
He did not know whether Daniel Voss was guilty.
He did not know who had sent the threatening message.
He did not know whether the white sedan in the photograph was connected to either death.
But he knew the investigation was moving forward.
And for the first time, the people asking questions had the authority and independence to demand answers.
What he did not yet understand was that the name Bellhaven Trust would soon lead them to a record that had been hidden in plain sight for twelve years—a record that could identify not only who had authorized the transfer of Samuel Reed's evidence, but who had benefited from ensuring that the case was never properly investigated.
That record was still inside the old courthouse.
And someone had already begun making arrangements to remove it.
The first call came at 7:42 that evening.
Agent Catherine Walsh was standing in a temporary federal operations room when her phone vibrated. Three investigators were reviewing the recovered recordings, while another team worked to obtain the original county records connected to Samuel Reed's case. On a whiteboard near the door, someone had written the names Richard Harlan, Daniel Voss, and Bellhaven Trust. Beneath them were dates, property transfers, and a list of unanswered questions.
Walsh answered the call.
“Agent Walsh.”
“This is Deputy Clerk Miriam Foster from the Bellhaven County courthouse.”
Walsh straightened.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Foster?”
“I received your request concerning archived property records and the old evidence-transfer documentation. I wanted to let you know that some of the files you requested may no longer be available.”
“Why not?”
“Because a records-removal authorization was submitted this afternoon.”
Walsh looked toward the investigator seated across from her.
“Who submitted it?”
“The request carries the authorization of the county administrator's office. It says the files are being transferred for preservation ahead of a building inspection.”
“What time was the authorization submitted?”
“Three twenty-six.”
“And when did you first receive our request?”
“Four twelve.”
Walsh's expression changed.
Someone had authorized the removal of the records before the federal request reached the courthouse.
“Ms. Foster, I need you to tell me exactly which files are being transferred, where they're going, and who signed the authorization.”
“I can tell you what appears in the system. But there's something else.”
“Go ahead.”
“The authorization number is unusual. It references an administrative review from twelve years ago. I searched the old index because I thought it might be connected to your request.”