Walsh lit a cigarette, even though smoking in the office had long been banned. Then he remembered he’d promised his daughter just a month earlier that he was quitting for good. He crushed it out and reached for a mint instead.
He rolled the candy around in his mouth and thought. Something about the neatness of the old story bothered him. The letter from Anna, the apartment sale, the plans to leave the country—it all fit too well.
But the reality was that the newlyweds had spent all those years under the floor of their own cabin. Which meant someone had worked very hard to make their disappearance look voluntary. The question was who—and why.
Walsh picked up the phone and called records. He requested Victor Sullivan’s current address. The information came back quickly.
Victor James Sullivan had been fifty-two in 1995. He was now nearing sixty. The file listed him at an apartment in an older suburb outside town.
It also noted that he was a former serviceman and veteran of an overseas deployment. A serious injury to his right leg had left him partially disabled. Since 1998, he had been treated for chronic alcoholism.
Walsh wrote down the address in his notebook. He planned to visit him the next day. But first he needed to answer one important question.
Who had owned that cabin all these years? Who had managed to take title after the Reeds disappeared? A property records request produced an interesting answer.
After 1995, the cabin had been listed under the name of Greg Sanders. The same real estate agent from New Horizon Realty who had handled the apartment sale. According to the documents, Sanders had received the cabin through a power of attorney signed by Daniel Reed.
The power of attorney had been notarized on June 15, 1995—two days before the couple vanished. Sanders held the cabin until 2002, then sold it. The buyer was Mike Carter, who had no idea what he was purchasing.
On paper, the transaction looked perfectly legal. But Walsh’s instincts told him this was where the answer lay. Buried deep under that slab of concrete.
The next morning, he drove out to the suburb listed in Sullivan’s file. The building was a typical aging apartment block on the edge of town. The hallway smelled of dampness and old carpet.
The elevator was out of order. Walsh had to climb to the fifth floor. The apartment door was covered in peeling faux leather.
The buzzer didn’t work. He knocked hard with his knuckles, but no one came for a while. At last he heard a slow dragging step from inside.
The lock clicked, and the door opened on a short chain. In the narrow gap appeared the gaunt face of the apartment’s owner. In the eight years since his daughter vanished, Victor Sullivan had acquired a rough beard and the bloodshot eyes of a man who drank too much….
