I clicked another month.
Then another.
The shape became visible.
Not proof yet.
But structure.
I remembered something else.
Before Chicago, Conrad had asked me to find his insurance card in a jacket he rarely wore.
Inside the pocket was a small black key fob.
No label.
I assumed it belonged to a storage facility.
I had placed it in the ceramic bowl near our front door.
If Conrad had not noticed it missing, he probably believed it was still there.
I looked at Blythe.
“Can you drive?”
“Where?”
“Capitol Hill.”
“Miriam, you have been upright for twelve minutes.”
“I can sit in a car.”
“That is not a medical clearance.”
“I’m going.”
She studied me.
Then grabbed her coat.
“Fine. But if you collapse in an elevator, I’m telling everyone this was your idea.”
The Melrose building was modern and quiet.
Glass lobby.
Indoor plants.
A desk near the elevators.
We waited until another resident entered.
Blythe whispered, “I hate this.”
“So do I.”
“Good.”
The key fob activated the elevator.
Floor eleven.
The light turned green.
Unit 1104.
My hands felt strangely steady.
The fob opened the door.
I did not know what I expected.
A temporary corporate apartment.
A storage space.
Something that allowed my mind one last route back toward innocence.
Instead, I walked into someone else’s home.
Cream sofa.
Rose-colored pillows.
Fresh flowers on the dining table.
Two mugs drying beside the sink.
A pair of women’s shoes near the bedroom door.
And photographs.
Conrad on the Oregon coast beside a blonde woman I had never seen.
Conrad at dinner with her.
Conrad sitting on a balcony with his arm around her shoulders.
He was laughing in one picture.
Really laughing.
Not the careful public smile he used at fundraisers.
Not the controlled half-smile he gave me when I told a story at dinner.
I stared at his face longer than I stared at hers.
Because I could not remember the last time I had seen him look that unguarded with me.
Blythe whispered my name.
I raised one hand.
On the kitchen counter sat a pregnancy guide.
Beside it was a bottle of prenatal vitamins.
An open planner lay nearby.
Conrad’s handwriting.
Nursery.
Sage green.
Crib — white oak.
Doctor appointment.
Call landlord about second parking space.
I felt the room narrow around me.
Then I saw the bank statement on the refrigerator.
MERIDIAN NEST PROPERTIES LLC.
Account holder: Conrad Hale.
Opening deposit:
$400,000.
I photographed it.
Then the planner.
Then the apartment photographs.
I moved through the rooms carefully, touching nothing I did not need to touch.
In a desk drawer was a folder of corporate transfer records.
Payments from one of Conrad’s consulting entities into Meridian Nest.
Some small.
Some large.
Structured.
Layered.
Exactly the kind of movement designed to look routine if no one asked why the destination existed.
I photographed those too.
Blythe appeared beside me.
“We need to leave.”
“I know.”
“Now.”
Then the elevator chimed outside.
Voices.
Conrad.
A woman laughing.
Blythe’s eyes widened.
There was nowhere for both of us to hide without making noise.
She moved toward a utility closet near the entry.
I slipped into the bedroom’s walk-in closet.
The door remained open less than an inch.
My heart pounded so hard I thought they would hear it.
They entered.