Mrs. Powell’s gaze stayed on me, steady. “Matthew, you need to listen to me.”
“I listened for six years,” I said. “I listened to pumps and monitors and your little peppermint-tea advice. I listened while my sister drugged my wife. I listened while everyone lied.”
Her eyes flickered, and for a fraction of a second I saw something human there—regret, maybe, or exhaustion.
“I didn’t know about Alyssa,” she said quietly.
The hooded man made a small sound, like disagreement.
Mrs. Powell ignored him. “I knew Bree was in danger. I knew she had information that could get her killed.”
“And your solution was to play nurse in my house?” I demanded.
“It was the only access point,” she snapped, then immediately softened her tone like she realized she’d shown too much. “Bree went off-grid after she started digging. She asked for help. I gave it.”
My stomach turned. “Bree asked you.”
Mrs. Powell hesitated. That hesitation was loud.
“She did,” she said finally, but it sounded like half a truth.
The hooded man stepped closer, and my body tensed instinctively.
“Enough,” he said smoothly. “We’re not here for your feelings.”
Mrs. Powell’s shoulders lifted like she was bracing herself. “You shouldn’t have come, Matthew. I told Harper not to let you—”
Harper.
My pulse spiked. “You know Harper.”
Mrs. Powell’s jaw tightened. “Of course I do.”
A new cold spread through me. If she knew Harper, if Harper knew her, then what was real? What had been staged? What part of my “help” had been curated?
I glanced down the lane. No cars. No sirens. Just wind rattling chain-link and the distant hiss of the car wash.
“You lured me here,” I said to Mrs. Powell, voice low. “You sent the key.”
Mrs. Powell didn’t deny it. “I had to.”
“Why?” My hands shook around the envelope. “To take the photos? To take the book?”
“To keep you from giving it to the task force,” the hooded man said calmly, and my stomach flipped.
Mrs. Powell shot him a look—warning, furious.
So that was it. Not just intimidation. A tug-of-war over evidence.
“The FBI isn’t clean,” Mrs. Powell said quickly, as if racing the damage he’d done. “Not this case. Not this town. Someone’s been feeding them filtered truth for years.”
My mouth went dry. “Agent Chen?”
Mrs. Powell’s gaze darted—just a flicker, but enough.
The emotional turn hit like a shove: the one person who’d sounded steady in that conference room might be another hand on the puppet strings.
“Get in the SUV,” the hooded man said, voice still calm. “You bring what you found. We’ll decide what happens next.”
I didn’t move. My feet felt bolted to the ground.
Mrs. Powell’s voice softened. “Matthew, please. If you go back to the station with those photos, you’ll be dead before you hit the courthouse steps.”
“Then why not call Harper?” I demanded. “Why not do this the right way?”
Mrs. Powell’s lips pressed together. “Because the right way got Bree hit in the first place.”
The words landed like a punch.
I looked at the ACCIDENT NIGHT envelope in my hands. Bree on a stretcher. Fog. Headlights. Mrs. Powell in the background.
My throat tightened. “Were you there when she got hit?”
Mrs. Powell’s eyes didn’t leave mine. “Yes.”
“Did you—”
“No,” she cut in, sharp. “I did not put her in that road. But I knew she was being followed. I knew she was being squeezed. And I got there too late.”
The hooded man exhaled, impatient. “We’re running out of time.”
Mrs. Powell stepped closer to me, lowering her voice. I could smell peppermint and something else underneath—like antiseptic, like hospitals.
“Matthew,” she whispered, “Bree didn’t record that message for you because she trusted you. She recorded it because she needed a fail-safe. A drop point. And you’re it.”
My stomach twisted. “So she used me.”
Mrs. Powell’s expression softened, just a fraction. “Yes.”
The admission didn’t shock me so much as it confirmed the bruise I’d been pressing for months. I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to either laugh or throw up.
“What do you want from me?” I asked, voice hoarse.
Mrs. Powell reached out and gently touched the envelope in my hands, like she was grounding me. “Give me the photos and the recorder,” she said. “Not him. Me.”
The hooded man shifted, irritated.
“Then what?” I demanded.
Mrs. Powell’s eyes held mine. “Then you walk away.”
“Walk away,” I echoed bitterly. “That’s your big plan?”
“It’s survival,” she said softly. “And you can’t save Bree anymore. Not the way you think.”
The words hurt because they were true.
I stared at Mrs. Powell, trying to decide whether she was an ally, a liar, or both.
Then my phone buzzed in my pocket—one sudden vibration that felt like a heartbeat.
One bar of service had found me.
A text flashed on the screen from Harper:
DON’T MOVE. STAY WHERE YOU ARE.
My blood went cold.
Mrs. Powell’s eyes flicked to my phone, then past me, down the lane.
Her face changed—tightening, calculating.
And she whispered, barely audible, “They followed you.”
I turned my head, and in the distance I saw headlights blooming to life at the end of the storage row—more than one car, coming fast.
If Harper was coming, who else was coming with her, and why did Mrs. Powell look like she’d just realized she miscalculated?
Part 12
The headlights at the end of the lane multiplied—two, then three, then a fourth set swinging into the row like sharks turning toward blood.
The hooded man swore under his breath. Mrs. Powell’s shoulders stiffened. She grabbed my elbow—not hard, but urgent.
“Now,” she hissed. “Move.”
Goal: don’t get caught between two forces that both claim to be saving me. Conflict: every direction felt like walking into a different kind of trap.
“I’m not getting in the SUV,” I snapped, pulling my arm back.
Mrs. Powell didn’t argue. Instead, she did something that confused me more than any confession: she shoved the key ring into my hand.
Cold metal. Too many keys.
“My car,” she said quickly, nodding toward a plain sedan parked one row over, half-hidden by a dumpster. “If you run, you run there.”
The hooded man’s calm cracked into irritation. “You’re not doing this.”
Mrs. Powell’s voice went sharp. “Shut up.”
The shift in her tone made my skin prickle. This wasn’t a nurse scolding a stubborn caretaker. This was someone used to giving orders.
The SUV’s engine rumbled behind us. The hooded man stepped toward me, hand lifting like he meant to take the envelope by force.
I backed up instinctively, chest tight. “Touch me and I scream,” I warned, even though my voice was shaking.
He smiled faintly. “Scream for who?”
The approaching cars were close enough now that I could hear tires on gravel. Doors slamming. Shouts carried on wind—muffled, distorted.
Mrs. Powell’s eyes locked onto mine. “Matthew, listen,” she said, fast and low. “Give Harper the recorder. Not Chen. Harper.”
My stomach dropped. “You’re saying Harper’s clean.”
