Chapter 2 - The Forensic Audit of a Life
The office door clicked shut, leaving the muted hum of Seattle’s afternoon traffic outside the soundproofed triple-pane glass. Marcus stood by his desk, watching Renee gently guide Wren toward the private executive lounge. Within minutes, Renee had organized a tray of warm chicken tenders, fresh fruit, and a oversized cashmere sweater to replace the threadbare jacket the girl had been shivering in.
Desmond Cole arrived precisely twenty minutes later. The retired lead homicide detective didn't look like a private investigator; he looked like a grandfatherly professor, wearing a faded tweed jacket and carrying a battered leather satchel. But his eyes were sharp, calculating every exit point in the room before he even took a seat.
"Marcus," Desmond said, his gravelly voice grounding the electric tension in the room. "Renee gave me the basics on the drive over. You want a deep dive on a children's home called Haven Bridge, and you need it yesterday."
"Look at her, Desmond," Marcus murmured, gesturing toward the glass partition of the lounge. Wren was carefully stacking her green beads on the mahogany table, her movements precise, almost mechanical.
Desmond adjusted his spectacles, staring at the girl for a long, silent minute. A low whistle escaped his lips. > "Good God. She’s the spitting image of Iris. If I didn't know any better, I’d swear I was looking at a photograph from seven years ago."
Marcus leaned against the edge of his desk, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to hide the slight tremor in his fingers.
The Immediate ChecklistMarcus turned to his security chief. "I want three things done simultaneously, Desmond. No budget limits, no legal red tape. Use whatever resources necessary."
Paternity Protocol: "Get a rapid-sequence DNA test done. Take a hair sample from my comb and a cheek swab from Wren. I want results back within six hours."
The Paper Trail: "Trace Iris Callahan's social security number, medical records, and credit history over the last seven years. If she passed away, I want the death certificate. If she’s alive, I want a satellite lock on her position."
Haven Bridge Investigation: "Find out who finances that charity. Adrian Voss looked like he’d seen a ghost when I mentioned the name over the phone. I want to know why."
Desmond opened his laptop, his fingers flying across a customized database linked to the state's criminal justice network. "Haven Bridge operates out of a converted estate in Skagit County. On paper, it's a non-profit sanctuary for abandoned or orphaned children. But their tax filings are strange, Marcus. They receive massive anonymous injections of cash from offshore entities in the Cayman Islands. And their missing-person reports for runaways are unusually high."
May you like
Marcus’s phone buzzed on the desk. It was a secure text from Adrian Voss: Meeting you at the penthouse in an hour. Don't talk to anyone else about Haven Bridge.
Marcus stared at the glowing screen. The web was already twisting, and his daughter—he felt it in his chest, despite the lack of a laboratory report—was caught right in the center of it.
