PART 5 — THE BLOOD IN MARGARET’S CAR
Wesley didn’t sit back down.
For several seconds, he just stood beside the booth staring at my phone.
Officer Ramirez’s words hung between us.
The blood in Margaret Ellis’s abandoned car belonged to Wesley Grant.
Melissa was the first to speak.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Wesley looked at me.
“I don’t know.”
I stood too.
“You don’t know how your blood got inside a missing woman’s car?”
“No.”
“Wesley.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
His voice was low, but something had changed in it.
Fear.
Real fear.
Officer Ramirez was still on the line.
“Ms. Carter?”
“I’m here.”
“Do not leave the diner.”
I looked toward the windows.
Two police cruisers were turning into the parking lot.
“They’re already here.”
“Good.”
The call ended.
Wesley stared toward the entrance.
Then he picked up his backpack.
Melissa immediately stepped between him and the aisle.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not running.”
“That bag says otherwise.”
Wesley slowly put it back down.
Two officers entered.
Officer Ramirez was with them.
The moment she saw Wesley, her face became serious.
“Mr. Grant, I need you to come with us.”
Wesley nodded once.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not at this moment.”
“At this moment?”
“We need to ask questions.”
Wesley glanced at me.
I hated that I was suddenly wondering whether everything I knew about him was a lie.
The kind man outside the grocery store.
The broken knee.
The repairs.
The bread.
The files.
Maybe all of it was true.
Maybe none of it was.
Officer Ramirez noticed my expression.
“Ms. Carter, we’ll speak afterward.”
One of the officers reached for Wesley’s backpack.
Wesley stopped him.
“Careful.”
The officer frowned.
“What’s inside?”
“Documents.”
“Anything dangerous?”
“No.”
The officer opened it anyway.
Clothes.
Medication.
The old phone.
More copied inspection records.
Then he found something else.
A small brass key.
Wesley stared at it.
Officer Ramirez held it up.
“What does this open?”
“I don’t know.”
I watched Wesley’s face.
“You don’t know?”
“I’ve never seen that.”
Melissa whispered, “Oh, come on.”
Officer Ramirez placed the key inside an evidence bag.
Wesley looked genuinely confused.
“That wasn’t in there yesterday.”
My stomach tightened.
“You had the backpack with you all night.”
“At the shelter.”
“Did anyone touch it?”
“It was beside my cot.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I was asleep.”
Officer Ramirez asked, “Does the key look familiar?”
“No.”
Then Nolan’s voice appeared in my head.
He had been fascinated by Wesley’s backpack the first night.
He had asked what was inside.
I had told him not to touch it.
Another thought hit me.
“The men outside my apartment.”
Everyone looked at me.
“What about them?” Ramirez asked.
“They knew Wesley had the files.”
“Yes.”
“What if they put something in his bag?”
Wesley looked at me sharply.
Melissa shook her head.
“Audrey, don’t start defending him.”
“I’m not defending anyone.”
Officer Ramirez slipped the evidence bag into her pocket.
“We’ll determine where it came from.”
Wesley was led outside.
He turned once before entering the cruiser.
Our eyes met.
He didn’t say anything.
Neither did I.
For the first time since I found him outside the grocery store, I was relieved to see him leave.
And I hated myself for feeling that way.
Officer Ramirez stayed behind.
We sat at the table again.
She opened a notebook.
“Tell me exactly what Wesley told you about Margaret.”
I repeated everything.
The mold complaints.
The city review.
Margaret’s message about Unit 3B.
Her disappearance.
The abandoned car.
Ramirez wrote quickly.
Then she asked, “Did he ever mention being inside Margaret’s vehicle?”
“No.”
“Did he ever tell you he met with her immediately before she disappeared?”
I froze.
“No.”
Ramirez looked up.
“According to old phone records, Margaret called Wesley seven times the night before she vanished.”
My skin prickled.
“He told me they never met.”
“That’s what he told investigators eighteen months ago too.”
“So maybe they didn’t.”
“Maybe.”
I hated that word.
Maybe.
It meant nothing.
It meant everything.
“What does Wesley say about his blood?”
“He says he doesn’t know.”
“Do you believe him?”
Officer Ramirez closed her notebook.
“That isn’t my job.”
I understood.
But I wanted someone to tell me what to think.
Someone to separate the truth from the lies.
Nobody could.
Ramirez continued.
“There’s another reason I came personally.”
“What?”
“The blood isn’t the only new result.”
Melissa leaned forward.
“What else?”
Officer Ramirez hesitated.
“The laboratory also recovered a partial fingerprint from a plastic folder that was found under the passenger seat.”
My heart jumped.
“A folder?”
“Similar to the ones Wesley has been carrying.”
“Whose fingerprint?”
“We’re still confirming.”
Something in her tone bothered me.
“You already know.”
She looked at me.
“We have a preliminary match.”
“To Charles?”
“No.”
“Bell?”
“No.”
My mouth went dry.
“Then who?”
Officer Ramirez slid a photograph across the table.
It showed the inside of Margaret’s car.
The passenger seat.
A red folder on the floor.
A small dark stain near the center console.
I stared at it.
Then she placed a second photograph beside it.
A close-up of the folder.
There was handwriting across the front.
UNIT 3B.
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
Melissa asked.
I pointed.
“My apartment.”
Officer Ramirez nodded.
“Margaret appears to have been carrying material related to your unit when she disappeared.”
I stared at the photograph.
“Whose fingerprint was on it?”
Ramirez answered carefully.
“The preliminary match belongs to your landlord.”
“Mr. Bell?”
“Yes.”
I felt suddenly dizzy.
“But he said Margaret moved.”
“I know.”
“Did he tell police he had ever been inside her car?”
“No.”
“Did anyone ask him?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He denied it.”
Melissa whispered, “So he lied.”
Ramirez didn’t answer.
She didn’t need to.
I looked through the diner window.
Cars passed normally.
People walked into shops.
Everything outside looked ordinary.
My world no longer did.
“What happens now?”
“We question Wesley again.”
“And Bell?”
“We’re locating him.”
“Locating?”
“He isn’t at the building.”
I remembered his angry face outside my door.
“How long has he been gone?”
“Since last night.”
Another chill.
“And Charles?”
“We have officers trying to contact him.”
“Trying?”
“His attorney says he’s unavailable.”
Of course he was.
I rubbed my forehead.
“I need to get Nolan from school.”
Ramirez shook her head.
“I’d recommend someone else pick him up.”
My heart tightened.
“Why?”
“Until we know who sent those messages, I don’t want your routine to be predictable.”
Melissa immediately said, “I’ll get him.”
“No.”
“Audrey.”
“He’s my son.”
“And you’re the one receiving threats.”
She was right.
I hated it.
But she was right.
Melissa left.
I stayed with Officer Ramirez.
Before she went, she gave me one instruction.
“Do not return to Unit 3B.”
“I need clothes.”
“We can arrange an escort later.”
“I have work tomorrow.”
“You may want to call in.”
“I can’t afford to call in.”
“I understand.”
No, she didn’t.
Missing one shift mattered to people like me.
It meant groceries.
Gas.
Electricity.
But I didn’t argue.
After she left, I sat alone in the diner.
My coffee was cold.
I opened the photographs she had allowed me to keep copies of.
Margaret’s car.
The folder.
UNIT 3B.
Then I zoomed in.
There was something underneath the handwriting.
A number.
I enlarged the image.
2147.
I stared at it.
It looked familiar.
But I couldn’t remember why.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from Melissa.
GOT NOLAN. WE’RE HEADING HOME.
I exhaled.
Then another message appeared.
Unknown number.
You’re looking at the wrong man.
I froze.
Another message.
Wesley didn’t hurt Margaret.
I looked around the diner.
Nobody seemed to be watching me.
Then a third message.
If you want to know what happened, check 2147.
My heart stopped.
The same number on Margaret’s folder.
I typed before I could stop myself.
WHAT IS 2147?
The answer came instantly.
Your basement.
I stared at the screen.
Our building had a basement.
Tenants weren’t allowed inside.
Mr. Bell always said it contained boilers, pipes, and electrical equipment.
Then I remembered something.
A faded metal door near the laundry room.
A keypad beside it.
I had seen Bell entering numbers there before.
Four digits.
2147.
My hands began shaking.
I called Officer Ramirez.
No answer.
I left a voicemail.
Then I called again.
Still nothing.
I should have waited.
I knew that.
Instead, one thought kept repeating.
Margaret found something connected to Unit 3B.
She disappeared.
She left the number 2147 behind.
Whatever was hidden in that basement might explain everything.
I stood.
Then stopped.
Nolan.
I couldn’t drag him into this.
I texted Melissa.
KEEP NOLAN WITH YOU. I HAVE TO HANDLE SOMETHING.
Her reply came immediately.
AUDREY NO.
I ignored it.
Twenty minutes later, I was standing across the street from my apartment building.
I told myself I was only going to look.
Nothing more.
No one was near the entrance.
Mr. Bell’s office window was dark.
I crossed the street.
My hands trembled as I entered.
The hallway smelled exactly as it always had.
Old carpet.
Cleaning chemicals.
Something damp underneath.
The basement stairs were beside the laundry room.
I descended slowly.
One step.
Then another.
At the bottom, I saw the metal door.
The keypad glowed green.
I entered:
2.
1.
4.
7.
A click.
The door unlocked.
I almost turned around.
Almost.
Then I pulled it open.
The room beyond was dark.
I used my phone flashlight.
Pipes ran along the ceiling.
Boxes lined one wall.
Old maintenance equipment sat in a corner.
Nothing unusual.
Then I noticed another door at the back.
No keypad.
Just a heavy latch.
I approached.
On the door was a faded piece of masking tape.
Someone had written:
3B.
My breath caught.
I lifted the latch.
The door creaked open.
The smell hit me first.
Mold.
Dust.
Something metallic.
My flashlight swept across the room.
And then I stopped breathing.
Pieces of drywall were stacked against one wall.
Old flooring.
A broken bathroom vanity.
A kitchen cabinet.
All labeled with the same thing.
UNIT 3B.
They hadn’t repaired my apartment.
They had removed parts of it.
Hidden them.
Why?
Then my light fell on a cardboard box.
MARGARET ELLIS.
I whispered her name.
Inside were photographs.
Maintenance reports.
Medical records.
And dozens of handwritten notes.
I pulled out the first photograph.
It showed my apartment during renovation.
The kitchen wall had been completely opened.
Inside the wall was something I didn’t understand.
A narrow metal compartment.
Almost like a safe.
In the next photograph, the compartment door was open.
Someone had written:
FOUND 11:42 PM.
DO NOT REPORT UNTIL VANE ARRIVES.
Another photo.
This one showed several plastic bags inside the compartment.
I looked closer.
Cash.
Bundles of cash.
And documents.
My stomach turned.
So that was it.
The mold was real.
The dangerous wiring was real.
But something else had been hidden inside Unit 3B.
I reached deeper into Margaret’s box.
At the bottom was a small digital recorder.
I pressed play.
Static.
Then Margaret’s voice.
“If anyone finds this, my name is Margaret Ellis. I’ve been documenting Westbridge Development and Robert Bell for six months.”
My pulse raced.
She continued.
“What they found inside Unit 3B is not renovation money.”
A pause.
“It’s payoff money.”
My grip tightened.
Then another voice appeared on the recording.
A man.
Charles.
“You should have left this alone, Margaret.”
I stopped breathing.
Margaret replied, “People are sick because of you.”
Then Bell’s voice.
“You don’t understand what you found.”
“I understand enough.”
There was movement.
Then Margaret shouted.
The recording became chaotic.
A crash.
A man swearing.
Then Margaret yelled one name.
“Wesley!”
My blood froze.
A struggle followed.
Something heavy struck metal.
Then Wesley’s voice.
“Run!”
I nearly dropped the recorder.
That was how his blood got inside Margaret’s car.
He had been there.
He had lied.
But maybe not for the reason everyone thought.
The recording continued.
Margaret was breathing hard.
A car door slammed.
Then silence.
Several seconds later, a final voice spoke.
Quiet.
Close to the recorder.
Charles.
“Find them both.”
The audio ended.
I stood frozen in the basement.
Then I heard something upstairs.
A door closing.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Descending the basement stairs.
I switched off my flashlight.
My heart hammered so hard I was sure whoever was coming could hear it.
One step.
Two.
Three.
Then a man’s voice echoed through the darkness.
“Audrey?”
I knew that voice.
Charles Vane.
He was inside the building.
And he knew exactly where I was.
CONTINUE READ NEXT PART… 👇
