Chapter 17 - THE BAG UNDER THE BUILDING.
Chloe asked to see the backpack.
Detective Ortiz said no.
“It’s evidence.”
“It’s mine.”
“Currently, those facts are in conflict.”
Chloe looked offended.
Alexander laughed.
She glared at him.
“Sorry.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
Chloe’s recovery had reached the point where irritation felt like progress.
She could walk short distances.
Her jaw still hurt.
Bruising remained.
But she no longer looked fragile enough that every room became quiet when she entered.
That mattered.
People treated visible injury strangely.
Some stared.
Some looked away.
Some spoke too slowly, as if bruises affected intelligence.
Chloe hated all of them.
She especially hated strangers online calling her brave.
“I filmed a lady falling down,” she told Alexander. “I didn’t storm Normandy.”
Alexander looked at her.
“Good.”
“What?”
“You’re becoming unbearable again.”
She smiled carefully.
They were at Sarah Mendel’s office discussing Hawthorne’s scholarship review.
The university had temporarily reversed it.
Officially, after “additional evaluation.”
Unofficially, Sarah believed public pressure made the timing look terrible.
No one could prove retaliation yet.
Again:
What evidence proved.
What it did not.
Chloe had started saying the phrase herself.
It became almost a family joke.
Alexander would accuse the dog of stealing food.
Chloe would ask:
“What does the evidence actually prove?”
It was the first humor either of them had found since the attack.
Then Sarah opened a letter.
Bellamy Event Services agreed to restore Eli Ramos’s schedule pending wage investigation.
Marisol’s missing shift pay would be reimbursed.
Several other workers were included.
Small win.
Not justice.
But real.
Chloe stared at the letter.
“Good.”
Alexander watched her.
“You don’t look happy.”
“I am.”
“Then?”
She looked down.
“Why did somebody have to almost die before they got eight hours back?”
Alexander had no satisfying answer.
That evening Ortiz visited with the notebook.
Not physically.
Photographs.
Chloe identified it immediately.
She had kept it for six months.
“Why?”
“Because people kept saying things were accidents.”
“What things?” Ortiz asked.
Chloe took a breath.
“Shifts disappeared.”
“Whose?”
“Workers who complained.”
“Tips?”
“Yes.”
“Service entrance policy?”
“Yes.”
“Who told you to document?”
“No one.”
“You planning to publish?”
“Maybe campus paper.”
“Did you contact them?”
“One editor.”
“Name?”
“Tessa Morgan.”
Ortiz wrote it down.
“Did Bryce know?”
Chloe thought.
“He saw notebook once.”
“When?”
“January.”
“Context?”
Chloe described a student-worker meeting in a cafe.
Bryce walked by.
Made a joke.
“Something about unionizing?”
“Yes.”
“Exact words?”
Chloe frowned.
“He said, ‘Careful, Sterling. Rich people hate organized poor people.’”
Alexander’s eyes hardened.
Chloe looked at him.
“He was joking.”
“Maybe.”
“Dad.”
“I said maybe.”
Ortiz asked, “Did you interpret it as threat?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Again, discipline.
Chloe continued.
“He grabbed notebook.”
Alexander sat forward.
“Grabbed?”
“For like two seconds.”
“What did he do?”
“Read a page.”
“Which?”
“Tips.”
“Then?”
“Gave it back.”
“Said?”
“‘You really need a hobby.’”
Ortiz looked at the photographed notebook.
“The torn page was at end.”
Chloe nodded.
“What was on it?”
She tried to remember.
Then her face changed.
“Oh.”
Alexander noticed.
“What?”
Chloe looked at Ortiz.
“Founders’ Night assignments.”
“Meaning?”
“I copied donor table assignments.”
“Why?”
“Wanted to compare tips afterward.”
“Anything else?”
“Vehicle list.”
Alexander felt his pulse shift.
“What vehicle list?”
“Bellamy office had transport sheet.”
“For donors?”
“Yes.”
“You copied it?”
“Some.”
“Why?”
Chloe shrugged carefully.
“Conrad Vale’s table tipped cash last year but workers said they didn’t get it. I wanted to know which staff handled his events.”
Ortiz leaned closer.
“Do you remember what was on torn page?”
“Maybe.”
“Try.”
“Vale SUV.”
Alexander stared.
“What about it?”
“Driver.”
“Daniel Kerr?”
Chloe frowned.
“No.”
Ortiz and Alexander exchanged a look.
“What name?”
Chloe closed her eyes.
“I don’t remember.”
“First letter?”
“No.”
“Anything?”
She shook her head.
“Don’t push,” Alexander said.
Ortiz nodded.
“We can try indentation recovery.”
Forensics recovered part of the writing the next morning.
Not enough for full page.
But enough.
VALE SUV — DRIVER CHANGED 9:40 — M. D—
Alexander read the line.
Marcus Dane.
Possibly.
Not certain.
Below it:
ASK BROOKS WHY.
Officer Brooks had known something about the vehicle assignment before Chloe left.
Ortiz interviewed him again.
This time Brooks admitted he had seen Marcus Dane take the Vale Foundation SUV keys from the official driver.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
Brooks looked miserable.
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“After Chloe was found beside the route that SUV traveled?”
“I didn’t know until later.”
“Then?”
He looked down.
“I was scared.”
Alexander was not there.
Ortiz played him the recording afterward.
Brooks’s voice cracked.
“Dane worked for Vale. Vale funds security. Ward told me not to make problems. My wife needs treatment. I thought if I said the wrong thing, I’d lose everything.”
Alexander listened twice.
Not to judge.
To understand.
Brooks had failed.
That did not make him the villain.
Fear and responsibility could exist together.
Then Ortiz reached the final minute.
“Did you see Dane after Chloe left?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“South service door.”
“Doing what?”
“Talking to Bryce.”
“When?”
“About 11:23.”
“Did you hear anything?”
Brooks went quiet.
Ortiz asked again.
“Nathan.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“He told Bryce to go home.”
“Anything else?”
Brooks swallowed.
“He said he’d handle the girl.”
Alexander stopped the recording.
Played it again.
He’d handle the girl.
Dane.
Conrad Vale’s security employee.
A man with a connection to Alexander’s former military world.
May you like
The same man Grant said took Chloe’s phone.
And now Officer Brooks placed him with Bryce minutes before Chloe was attacked.
