We went in together.
The room smelled exactly like Daniel — cedar, leather, the particular expensive cologne he wore every single day, a scent I had once associated with safety and now associated with something else entirely. The desk was large and dark-stained and completely cleared of surface clutter in the way that overly controlled spaces always are. Eli crossed the room without hesitating, crouched beside the desk, and pressed a hidden latch built into the side panel near the base.
A small section of the panel clicked and swung inward.
Inside the hidden compartment, neatly arranged: a flash drive. A passport — second one, different name, same photograph. A stack of insurance paperwork, crisp and organized. And a manila folder with my full name written across the front in Daniel’s recognizable, precise handwriting.
I opened the folder.
A life insurance policy. My name on the insured line. My signature on the consent page — forged, but done with enough care that someone unfamiliar with my handwriting would never question it. The amount was substantial. The named beneficiary was Daniel Whitmore. The date the policy had been originated was eight days prior.
Eight days before this Thursday afternoon.
I set the folder aside and looked at what lay beneath it.
Files. Two of them. Each labeled with a woman’s name I did not recognize. Inside each file were pages of handwritten notes — detailed, methodical, written in the same cold and efficient language that Daniel brought to everything he considered a practical matter. Notes about each woman’s daily schedule. Observations about how isolated they were. Assessments of how many close family members lived within driving distance. Evaluations, written plainly and without any apparent emotion, of how quickly — or rather, how slowly — anyone might begin to ask difficult questions if something were to happen to them.
I read enough to understand everything.
I put every document, every file, the flash drive, and the passport into my bag.
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