He reached toward the camera.
The screen went black.
For a long time, nobody moved.
Then my mother said, “We go to the police now.”
But when we arrived at the station the next morning, Detective Harris barely looked at the file.
He was a heavy man with tired eyes and a coffee stain on his tie. He flipped through Liam’s documents like they were coupons.
“This is a lot of speculation, Mrs. Walker.”
“There’s a video.”
“We’ll review it.”
“He said I was supposed to be in the car.”
Harris sighed. “Grieving people say things. Your husband was under stress.”
“My husband is dead.”
His eyes lifted then, flat and cold. “Yes. From a car accident.”
My mother stepped forward. “Are you refusing to investigate?”
“I’m saying these matters take time.”
Time.
The word made me laugh. A sharp, broken sound.
Liam had no time. My children’s father had no time. Whoever had searched his office had no time for procedures either.
As we left, I glanced back.
Detective Harris was already on his phone.
And through the glass door, I saw his mouth form one word.
Claire.
We did not go back to Mom’s house.
Something in my bones knew we couldn’t.
Instead, we went to a small motel off Route 9, paid cash, and checked in under my mother’s maiden name. The room smelled like bleach and old smoke. Sophie complained about the scratchy blanket. Noah loved the ice machine. My mother sat by the window all evening with the curtains cracked, watching the parking lot like a soldier.
I called Martin from the bathroom with the shower running.
“The detective is involved,” I said.
Martin cursed softly. “Liam suspected someone inside the department. He didn’t know who.”
“What do I do?”
“Federal prosecutor. Liam had a contact. Her name is Mara Ellison. I’ll send the number.”
Before he hung up, he said, “Emily, did you watch the whole video?”
“Yes.”
“No,” he said. “There was a second folder on the drive. Hidden. Liam told me only you would know the password.”
