Chapter 5: The Empty Drawer
Clara stood in the doorway of Ethan's office and looked at the open drawer for a long time before she called Holt in.
"It's always locked," she said.
"I've never seen it open.
Not once in four years."
Holt pulled on a glove and eased the drawer out fully.
Empty.
No files, no papers, no USB drives.
Just the faint rectangular outline in the drawer liner where something had sat for a long time and then been removed.
"Do you know what he kept in here?" Holt asked.
"No.
I asked once, early on.
He said it was just old business documents.
I didn't push it." She paused.
"I should have pushed it."
"Do you know where the key was kept?"
"On his keychain.
He had a small brass key that I always assumed was for this."
Holt stood.
"His keys weren't with the items in the bag.
We'll need to account for them." He made a note.
"Was anyone else in this office recently?
Anyone who might have known about the drawer?"
Clara thought about it.
Then the answer came to her the way unwanted answers do — quietly, from a direction she wasn't looking.
"Beatrice," she said.
"Three weeks ago.
She came over while Ethan was home.
They had a long conversation in here.
I heard them through the wall.
It got loud at one point."
"Loud how?"
"Beatrice was angry.
I couldn't make out words but I could hear the tone." Clara looked at the desk.
"When she left, Ethan told me it was nothing.
A disagreement about the project timeline.
He said she was being dramatic."
Holt looked at her steadily.
"Did you believe him?"
She met his eyes.
"I wanted to."
Holt's radio crackled again.
He stepped into the hallway to take it.
Clara stayed in the doorway, looking at the empty drawer, thinking about the spreadsheet.
The insurance figures.
Someone had calculated those numbers.
Someone had printed that document and put it in a bag with a bl00d-stained shirt and a wedding ring and hidden it in her home.
That took planning.
That took time.
Holt came back.
His expression had shifted — something had tightened around his eyes.
"We ran the spreadsheet," he said.
"The document metadata.
It was created eleven days ago." He paused.
"On a computer registered to Vance Family Properties."
"That's the company," Clara said.
"Ethan's family company.
He and Scott and Beatrice are all directors."
"The file was created on a machine in the main office," Holt said.
"We'll need to determine who had access to that specific workstation on that date.
But—" He stopped.
"But what?"
"The document was emailed.
Once.
From an internal company address." He looked at her carefully.
"To a personal account."
"Whose personal account?"
Holt didn't answer immediately.
He looked at her in the way people look when they're deciding how much to say.
"It was sent to an address we haven't been able to identify yet," he said.
"But the sending address — the internal company address it came from — was registered to Scott Vance."
The hallway felt narrower.
"Scott sent that document to someone," Clara said.
"It appears so."
"And then that document ended up in a bag in my apartment."
"Yes."
Clara pressed her back against the doorframe.
She thought about Scott standing in her living room with his phone up, recording her.
She thought about his voice — calm, practiced — telling the officer that Beatrice was in shock.
She thought about the way his phone had slipped from his hand when Lily spoke.
Not grief.
Not shock.
Calculation, interrupted.
"He's been in this apartment," Clara said.
"He had the key.
He knew the layout.
He knew where the plant was." She looked at Holt.
"He planted the bag.
Beatrice brought the plant to give him a landmark.
A hiding spot."
Holt didn't confirm it.
But he didn't deny it either.
"We're going to need to speak with Scott again," he said.
"And this time, I'd like you to be somewhere comfortable with Lily while that conversation happens."
Officer Reyes appeared in the hallway.
"Mr.
Miller is still in the living room," she said.
"He asked if he could stay until things settled."
Clara looked toward the living room, where she could see the edge of Mr.
Miller's jacket, the back of his gray head, patient and still.
"Tell him yes," she said.
"Tell him thank you."
She walked back to Lily.
She sat down.
She took her daughter's hand.
From the hallway, she heard a door open.
She heard Scott's voice, rising fast.
"I want to know what my mother said.
I have a right to know what she told you."
And Holt's voice, level as a table: "Mr.
Vance.
Sit down."
A pause.
Then the sound of a chair.
Clara looked at Lily's sleeping face and thought: wherever you are, Ethan, I need you to have left me something.
Something real.
Something that tells me which way to run.
May you like
She looked at the neon-green backpack still looped over Lily's shoulder.
She hadn't opened it yet.
