Chapter 2 - The Shadows of Sycamore Lane
The news hit Dana like a physical blow. She glanced at Andrew, who was watching her with a look of terrified confusion.
"Stay here," Dana commanded Andrew, her tone dropping into an official police directive. "Do not leave this floor. I’m having an officer posted outside Eli’s room. If you step foot out of this hospital, I will have you arrested for obstruction."
"Dana, I didn't wipe those files!" Andrew pleaded, taking a step toward her. "I was in the cafeteria at eight-ten supervising morning drop-off! There were two hundred kids and a dozen teachers in that room with me!"
"Then you’d better hope the cafeteria security cameras agree with you," Dana said coldly. She turned on her heel and hurried down the corridor toward the elevators.
Twenty minutes later, Dana’s unmarked cruiser pulled up to a modest, white frame house on Sycamore Lane, three miles south of the middle school. This was the address listed on Clara Turner’s old employment file from nine years ago.
The lawn was overgrown with brown, untrimmed grass and dry weeds. The mail slot in the front door was overflowing with circulars and yellowed envelopes. A rusty sedan sat in the driveway, its front tires completely deflated.
Dana drew her service weapon, holding it in a low ready position against her thigh, and approached the front porch. The wooden steps groaned beneath her boots.
"Police," she called out, knocking firmly on the door frame. "Clara Turner? This is Detective Brooks with the City Police Department."
Silence.
Dana reached out and turned the brass knob. To her surprise, the door clicked open. It hadn't been locked.
A stale, heavy odor drifted out from the interior—a combination of medicinal alcohol, spoiled food, and the distinct, coppery tang of old blood.
Dana clicked on her tactical flashlight, casting a bright beam of white light across the entryway.
The living room was in total disarray. Sofa cushions had been slashed open, their yellow foam guts pulled out onto the carpet. Bookshelves had been tipped over, scattering paperbacks across the floor. Someone had searched this house with systematic, ruthless desperation.
"Police!" Dana shouted again, moving carefully down the hallway, her flashlight beam sweeping from room to room. "Is anyone inside?"
She reached the master bedroom at the end of the hall.
The air inside was freezing. The window was wide open, the lace curtains flapping wildly in the cold autumn wind.
Lying on the floor beside a metal bed frame was a woman.
She was thin, her skin pale and waxy, wearing an old sweater and worn sweatpants. Her eyes were fixed open, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Dana rushed forward, dropping her flashlight to check for a carotid pulse. The woman’s skin was cold as ice. Rigor mortis had already set in. There were no obvious signs of physical trauma—no gunshot wounds, no stab marks, no strangle bruises on her neck. On the nightstand beside the bed sat an empty prescription bottle of insulin and a discarded syringe.
Beside the bed lay an open suit box, empty except for a scrap of paper that matched the broken identification card found in Eli’s pocket.
Dana leaned down to examine the deceased woman's face. Despite the hollow cheeks and dark circles, she recognized her immediately from the old school personnel files.
Clara Turner.
She had been dead for at least twelve hours.
Which meant Clara had died late last night—shortly before Eli was smuggled onto Bus 18.
Dana stood up, her pulse racing. She pulled her radio from her shoulder clip. "Dispatch, this is Unit 4. I have a 10-54 at 1412 Sycamore Lane. Female victim, deceased. Send forensics, the medical examiner, and place a precinct-wide hold on all records related to Jefferson Middle School Transportation."
As she waited for backup to arrive, Dana walked back to the center of the room. She noticed something sticking out from beneath the slashed mattress.
She put on a pair of latex gloves and pulled it out.
It was a small, black leather-bound diary with a brass lock that had been pried open.
Dana flipped to the last entry, dated three days prior. The handwriting was frantic, spidery, and smeared with grease:
He knows Eli didn't die in the lake. He found out about the trust payments. He called last night and said if I didn't deliver the original ledger by Friday, he would make sure both of us vanished for good. I can't trust the police. I can't trust Andrew. The only safe place for Eli is inside the system, where people are watching. Bus 18. Ray will see him. Ray always checks the seats.
Dana stared at the words, a chill running down her spine.
May you like
Clara Turner hadn't abandoned her son. She had hidden him on Bus 18 because she knew the driver, Ray Collins, had a meticulous reputation for checking his bus after every route. She believed Ray would find Eli within minutes of arriving at the school yard.
She hadn't known that someone else was waiting for Bus 18 to park. Someone who knew the vehicle’s blind spots, someone who could override the heating system, and someone who had the master code to lock the emergency exits from the outside.
