Chapter 10
The next morning, I called Wren to update her on the developments of the case so far. After the call ended, I saw that Hunter had texted me the address of the adoption agency, and I headed that way.
The agency sat on the edge of a quiet business district, tucked between an abandoned consignment shop and a building with a faded sign that once read “Travel Center.” Part of the last word had peeled off, leaving only “Travel Cen,” which felt like its own sad plea to an area of San Luis Obispo that had once been thriving.
I pulled into the cracked parking lot and parked close to the front door. The building looked dead, the kind of dead that went beyond empty. A metal plate covered the old mail slot, a thin layer of dust coated the glass, and there was an old, faded “For Lease” sign tilted behind the front window.
I stepped out of the car and walked to the entrance, searching for the surveillance camera. I looked in the hedges where I thought it should be, surprised to see it was no longer there. Someone had removed it. A bracket remained, along with the outline of a dark square on the siding.
Next, I tried the door.
It was locked, so I walked around back.
A rusted dumpster leaned against the wall, and a stack of old pallets sat beside it. One of the latches on a window around back had rust spots. It also looked loose. I dug a small tool out of my bag and wedged it beneath the frame. Seconds later, the wood creaked and the latch popped.
I pushed the window open and climbed inside, landing on the carpet with a soft thud, breathing in dust and stale air. A smattering of dead insects lay scattered across the floor, tiny reminders of how long this place had been ignored.
I pulled my flashlight from my pocket and clicked it on.
In what was once the reception area, I found a counter and a cracked leather chair that had been pushed against a wall. The file cabinets beside it were empty.
I moved down the hall, checking the offices one by one.
Empty desk.
Empty drawers.
The last office at the end of the hallway mirrored the rest. Bare walls. Dusty floor. I stood in the middle of the room and turned in a slow circle.
There was nothing here worth stealing.
Nothing worth hiding.
At least not at first glance.
I walked back the way I came, forcing myself to slow down, to look again, even though it seemed I was looking at nothing. When I reached a small room near the front again, my light swept across a tall bookcase on the far wall.
Unlike everything else in the building, the shelves held books, rows of them, spines loose, covered in dust. I stepped closer. There were books on parenting, counseling, and adoption ethics, among others.
The rest of the office had been stripped, yet the books remained.
It begged the question: Why were the books still there when everything else had been removed?
It felt—off.
I grabbed one side of the bookcase and pulled.
It didn’t move. I shifted my weight and tried again.
This time, a soft groan rose from the wall, and the base slid an inch.
I braced my feet and pulled harder. The bookcase shifted.
A narrow crack appeared between the wood and the wall, and behind it was a square panel that looked like a door, except it didn’t have a knob.
A hidden room, perhaps?
I wrapped both hands around the edge of the shelf and dragged it far enough to expose the rest of the panel. Then I flattened my hands against the panel and pushed, and it popped open, swinging outward with a low whine.
Stepping inside, the room contained a handful of boxes, all labeled with:
Client Files — A–C
Client Files — D–J
Client Files — K–M
Client Files — N–Z
Every record.
Every form.
Every document the agency had ever handled, perhaps?
Were these the missing files?
If they were, it was possible they were all still here, hidden from sight and that Cherished Connections hadn’t lost its records, they’d kept them out of reach.
I lifted the lid of the nearest box, finding stacks of folders filled it to the top with surnames as labels.
I closed the lid and moved to the next box.
More files.
More names.
Somewhere in this hidden room, I hoped to find Holly’s records, but the longer I searched the boxes, the more the stifling air was sending my allergies into overdrive.
I grabbed a couple of boxes and headed for the front door, piling them into the trunk of my car.
Then I went back for the others until I had them all.
Trunk closed, I walked toward the driver’s door.
And that was when I saw it: a folded note beneath my windshield wiper. I steadied my nerves, pulled it free, and unfolded it.
If you value your life, you’ll stop the investigation into Holly’s murder.
I looked across the empty lot, seeing nothing and no one. But someone had been close enough to my car to leave the note, which meant that same someone had watched me carry the boxes, and they knew what I had found.
I folded the note and slipped it into my pocket.
Then I got behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled onto the road.
Someone was desperate to keep the past buried.
But I wouldn’t stop until I brought it into the light.