Chapter 6 - The Notebook in the Laundry Room
Detective Martinez did not let me go back to the oak tree that night.
Technically, she had no authority to stop me. I wasn’t under arrest. I wasn’t a suspect. But she looked at the bandage on my arm, the swelling near my cheekbone, and the way I kept pressing one hand against my ribs, and she said, “You’re sleeping in the hospital lobby or I’m finding a reason to keep you for observation.”
So I slept in a vinyl chair beneath a television playing silent weather reports.
At 2:17 a.m., I woke to someone standing beside me.
Marcus.
He held a paper bag and two coffees.
“You look terrible,” he said.
“I looked terrible yesterday too.”
“Fair.”
He handed me the bag. Inside was a turkey sandwich, chips, and an apple.
I stared at it too long.
Marcus looked away, giving me privacy I hadn’t asked for but needed.
“Gary got suspended,” he said.
“Good.”
“He asked me to tell you he’s sorry.”
“He can tell me himself.”
Marcus nodded. “That’s what I said.”
I ate half the sandwich too quickly and had to stop before my stomach rebelled.
“Why are you still here?” I asked.
Marcus sat in the chair beside mine.
“Same reason you are.”
“You don’t know my reason.”
“I think I do.”
We sat in silence.
After a while, Marcus said, “My son died at nineteen. Overdose. I spent two years blaming every homeless man I saw because it was easier than blaming the pain. Gary’s young. Stupid. Angry. That doesn’t excuse him. But sometimes people swing at the wrong target because the right one scares them.”
I thought about Daniel Whitmore’s clean white shirt.
“Some targets should scare people.”
Marcus nodded.
At dawn, Detective Martinez found us there.
“We got the daycare records,” she said.
I stood too fast and pain lit up my ribs.
“Caleb was never dropped off,” she continued. “Daniel’s mother never had him. But we found something else.”
She held up her phone.
“A traffic camera caught Daniel’s black Mercedes leaving the Whitmore house at 8:42 a.m. Mrs. Whitmore’s Lexus left at 8:56.”
“So?”
“So Daniel told us he left at 7:30 for a client meeting downtown.”
Marcus whistled softly.
“Where was he at 8:42?” I asked.
“Near the house. And ten minutes later, another camera caught his Mercedes behind Emily’s Lexus.”
“The black Tahoe?”
“Registered to one of Daniel’s companies.”
The air in the lobby seemed to thin.
Detective Martinez lowered her voice.
“We need Emily’s notebook.”
“She told you about it?”
“Yes. Laundry room. Hidden behind a dryer vent panel. She says it has dates, incidents, things Daniel did. But the house is locked down, and Daniel’s attorney is already moving. We’re working on a warrant.”
“How long?”
“Too long.”
I understood what she didn’t say.
If Daniel got home first, the notebook would vanish.
“You can’t ask me to break into that house,” I said.
“I didn’t.”
“But you’re telling me the notebook matters.”
“I am.”
Marcus stood. “I know a guy who repairs appliances in that neighborhood.”
Detective Martinez looked at him.
Marcus shrugged. “I’m not saying I’ll do anything illegal. I’m saying houses like that have service entrances, cameras, and people who don’t notice maintenance vans.”
I should have walked away.
Instead, by ten that morning, I was sitting in Marcus’s old pickup while he drove through a neighborhood where every lawn looked richer than any house I had ever owned.
The Whitmore home sat behind black iron gates and perfect hedges.
A police car was already parked nearby, but not close enough to stop Daniel’s private security from moving boxes into an SUV in the driveway.
“Damn,” Marcus muttered. “He’s cleaning.”
Then Emily’s voice came from my memory.
Laundry room. Dryer vent panel.
I looked at the side of the property.
A maintenance gate stood open.
Two workers were carrying a framed mirror out through the front door. Nobody watched the side.
“Arthur,” Marcus warned.
But I was already out of the truck.
I didn’t run. Running draws eyes. I walked like I belonged to no one and nowhere, which had been true long enough to become useful.
The side gate led to a stone path. The laundry room door had a keypad lock. But the window beside it was cracked open two inches.
Old houses and rich houses had one thing in common. People trusted appearances more than mechanics.
I lifted the window slowly. It complained once, a small wooden groan. I froze. No one came.
I climbed through.
The laundry room smelled like lavender detergent and fear.
Behind the dryer, exactly where Emily said, was a metal vent panel held by two screws. My hands shook as I used the edge of my belt buckle to loosen them. It took forever. Every second felt loud.
Finally, the panel came free.
Inside was a blue spiral notebook.
I grabbed it.
Then I heard footsteps.
A man’s voice outside the laundry room door.
“Check every cabinet. Mr. Whitmore said papers, notebooks, anything handwritten.”
I shoved the notebook under my shirt.
The door handle turned.
I looked at the window.
Too far.
The door opened.
A security guard in a black suit stared at me.
For one second, neither of us moved.
Then he said, “Who the hell are you?”
May you like
I did the only thing I could.
I picked up a laundry basket and threw it at his face.
