Chapter 16: The Man Who Reported the Crash

The drawing room overlooked the eastern gardens.

Morning sunlight poured through the tall windows, illuminating rows of antique furniture that had remained untouched for decades.

Detective Owen Brooks stood beside the fireplace with his hat tucked beneath one arm.

He looked older than I remembered.

More tired.

The grey at his temples had spread, and deep lines framed his eyes.

He wasn't admiring the expensive paintings.

He was studying the family portraits.

When I entered, he turned immediately.

"Mrs. Ashford."

"Detective Brooks."

"It's been a long time."

"Three years," I answered.

"Three years and eleven days," he corrected quietly.

His memory surprised me.

Or perhaps some dates never left the people who carried them.

"Please sit."

Neither of us did.

Before another word could be spoken, footsteps echoed through the hallway.

Damien entered without knocking.

His suit jacket hung over one arm, his expression carefully composed.

"Detective," he greeted.

"Mr. Ashford."

The two men shook hands.

The handshake lasted only a second.

Neither smiled.

"I wasn't informed this meeting concerned my wife," Damien said.

"It doesn't," Brooks replied.

"Then why are you in my house?"

"Because Mrs. Ashford is easier to find than retired detectives."

I watched Damien carefully.

He looked annoyed.

Not nervous.

There was a difference.

"I'd like to speak with Mrs. Ashford privately," Brooks continued.

"That won't happen," Damien answered immediately.

"Actually," I interrupted, "it will."

Our eyes met.

For several long seconds neither of us looked away.

Finally Damien stepped aside.

"Ten minutes."

"Take as long as you need," Brooks replied.

Damien's jaw tightened.

He left without another word, though the door remained slightly open.

He intended to hear everything.

Brooks noticed.

So did I.

The detective walked calmly to the door and closed it himself.

The soft click echoed through the room.

"He always was controlling," Brooks murmured.

"You knew him before our marriage?"

"Professionally."

"Twice."

That caught my attention.

"Nathaniel mentioned him once," Brooks continued.

"He said Damien trusted facts more than people."

"He still does."

Brooks reached into his leather briefcase.

He removed a thick brown envelope.

The edges were worn with age.

"Do you remember the morning of the accident?"

"Every minute."

"Then perhaps you'll remember something everyone else overlooked."

He handed me several photographs.

They weren't newspaper prints.

They were original crime-scene photographs.

I recognised Nathaniel's car immediately.

The front end was crushed against the concrete barrier.

The driver's window had shattered.

Blood stained the steering wheel.

I swallowed hard.

Even after three years, the images still hurt.

"These were never released," I whispered.

"No."

"Because they disappeared before the case file reached court."

I looked up sharply.

"Disappeared?"

"Someone removed almost thirty photographs from evidence."

"Including these."

"Then how do you still have them?"

A faint smile crossed his face.

"Because I never trusted filing cabinets."

"I kept personal copies at home."

He slid another photograph across the table.

"Look carefully."

I leaned closer.

The picture showed the passenger side of Nathaniel's vehicle.

The door was hanging open.

Mud covered the lower panels.

Nothing unusual.

Then I noticed it.

A second set of footprints.

Someone had walked away from the passenger side after the crash.

"Nathaniel wasn't alone," I whispered.

"Exactly."

"But every official report said he was the only occupant."

"Because that's what someone wanted the report to say."

A cold sensation travelled down my spine.

"Did you identify the footprints?"

"No."

"By the time forensic officers returned the following morning, heavy rain had washed everything away."

"Who removed the passenger?"

"That's what I've spent three years asking."

He opened the envelope again.

This time he removed a folded sheet of paper.

"This arrived at my home last week."

"No return address."

"No fingerprints."

I unfolded it.

Only one sentence was typed across the centre.

"The wrong man died."

I stared at the words.

My heartbeat slowed instead of quickening.

Because whoever sent this wasn't confessing.

They were warning someone.

"Do you think it's genuine?" I asked.

"I think someone believes the investigation isn't over."

"And it isn't?"

"Not anymore."

"Why reopen it now?"

"Because two different people requested access to the archived evidence within forty-eight hours."

"One request came from you."

I nodded.

"The second?"

Brooks held my gaze.

"Damien Ashford."

Silence filled the room.

"Why would he do that?"

"That's the same question I hoped you could answer."

I couldn't.

Yesterday Damien had tried to stop me from reading Nathaniel's files.

Yet somehow he was searching for the same evidence.

Was he hiding the truth...

Or chasing it?

"There's something else," Brooks said.

He reached into the envelope one final time.

This time it wasn't a photograph.

It was an evidence inventory sheet.

One line had been circled in red ink.

Item 47.

Recovered from passenger seat.

Status: Missing.

"Do you know what Item Forty-Seven was?" Brooks asked.

I slowly shook my head.

"Neither do I."

"Because someone removed that page from the evidence log before the file was archived."

He looked toward the closed door.

"Mrs. Ashford..."

"Whatever your brother discovered..."

"It wasn't inside the car."

"It was the thing someone took out of it before the police arrived."

He picked up his briefcase.

"Find Item Forty-Seven."

"Find it before whoever erased it realises you're looking."

He walked to the door before stopping.

"One last question."

"Did your brother ever mention a woman named Amelia Hawthorne?"

The name hit me like ice water.

Not because I knew her.

But because I had read it only yesterday.

Across the top of one of Nathaniel's hidden folders.

HAWTHORNE PROJECT.

I kept my expression perfectly still.

"No," I lied.

"He never did."

Brooks studied my face for several seconds.

Then he gave a slow nod.

"If you remember anything... don't call the police."

"Call me first."

After he left, I remained standing in the silent drawing room.

The photographs still rested on the table.

One question echoed louder than every other.

If Nathaniel hadn't been alone...

Then who had climbed out of that passenger seat...

And why had Damien started searching for them only now?