"Because if it contains evidence, we need to preserve the original data properly."
I looked at the small device.
"Then what do you suggest?"
"Bring it to me tomorrow. I'll arrange a secure forensic examination."
"All right."
There was a brief silence.
Then Emily asked:
"Did Walker tell you anything else?"
"He said Eleanor knew more than I realized."
Emily sighed.
"Arthur, there is something I haven't told you."
I sat down.
"What?"
"Your wife's name appeared in an old financial investigation file connected to Blackridge."
I felt my chest tighten.
"Eleanor?"
"Yes."
"That's impossible."
"Her name appeared as a contact associated with one of the company's former employees."
"She was a schoolteacher."
"I know."
"She never had anything to do with finance."
"I understand. But I need you to consider the possibility that she knew something about David's investigation."
I stared at the wall.
Eleanor had always been private.
After David died, she stopped talking about his work entirely. She kept his belongings in boxes, refused to attend certain family gatherings, and became increasingly uncomfortable whenever I mentioned the investigation.
At the time, I thought she was simply grieving.
Now I wasn't sure.
I ended the call and walked upstairs.
The bedroom was exactly as Eleanor had left it.
Her favorite books were stacked beside the bed. A small jewelry box sat on the dresser.
I opened the drawer beneath it.
Inside were old photographs, letters, and a notebook with a blue cover.
I recognized it immediately.
Eleanor had carried that notebook everywhere during the last years of her life.
I opened it.
Most pages contained shopping lists, recipes, and reminders.
But toward the back, I found several pages filled with names.
Blackridge.
Richard Blackwood.
Thomas Walker.
George Patterson.
And one name I had never seen before.
MARGARET ELLIS.
Beside it was a phone number.
I searched through the remaining pages.
On the final page, Eleanor had written a sentence.
If Arthur ever discovers the truth, tell him the woman in the photograph is still alive.
I sat down slowly.
The woman in which photograph?
I returned to the box from the basement and examined the pictures again.
There was one photograph I had overlooked.
It showed David standing outside the government building.
Beside him was a woman in a dark coat.
Her face was partially hidden by the shadow of a tree.
I turned the photograph over.
This time, I noticed a small handwritten note in the lower corner.
M. Ellis — October 14.
I took out my phone and searched the number in Eleanor's notebook.
It was still active.
I hesitated before pressing the call button.
A woman answered after several rings.
"Hello?"
"Is this Margaret Ellis?"
"Who is asking?"
"My name is Arthur Bennett."
Silence.
Then a sharp intake of breath.
"Oh my God."
"Did you know my son, David?"
The woman began to cry.
"I was wondering when someone would finally call."
"Where are you?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Why?"
"Because they are still watching."
I stood.
"Who is watching?"
She whispered:
"Blackridge never disappeared, Mr. Bennett. It changed its name, replaced its people, and continued operating."
"Do you know who killed my son?"
"I know who ordered the investigation to be shut down."
"Who?"
There was another pause.
Then she said a name.
"Chief Daniel Whitmore."
I knew that name.
He was the current police chief of Millbrook.
The same department where Cole and Reeves worked.
Before I could ask another question, Margaret spoke again.
"Listen carefully. Your son didn't die because he discovered Blackridge."
"Then why?"
"Because he discovered what they were planning to do next."
"What?"
"Something involving a list of names. A list of people whose pensions, homes, and savings accounts were going to be taken through a network of fraudulent claims."
I felt my stomach turn.
"How many people?"
"More than two hundred."
"Why would they target elderly people?"
"Because most of them live alone. Because they trust official documents. Because they assume the police will protect them."
I closed my eyes.
Suddenly, the incident at the gas station made perfect sense.
My pension money had not been an isolated target.
It had been a test.
A test to determine whether I would submit quietly.
Margaret spoke one final sentence.
"Mr. Bennett, your son left something for you. Something that can destroy the entire organization."
"What is it?"
"A list of names."
"Where?"
"At the place where he died."
Then the call ended.
I stood in the dark bedroom, holding Eleanor's notebook.
For the first time in seventeen years, I understood why she had been so afraid.
She hadn't been trying to stop me from finding the truth.
She had been trying to keep me alive.
And now the people who had murdered my son knew that I was getting close.
The following morning, I drove toward Route 17.
It was an old highway cutting through a stretch of countryside between Millbrook and Ashford.
Seventeen years earlier, David's car had been found near an abandoned maintenance road approximately ten miles south of town.
The official report claimed he had lost control during a storm.
I remembered that night clearly.
The rain had been heavy.
The road had been slippery.
But David was an excellent driver.
He had spent years traveling between military installations and government offices. He knew how to handle a vehicle under difficult conditions.
I had never believed the accident report.
Now I had a reason to return.