Digging Deeper

The Uber driver smelled of cinnamon air freshener and bad news. He glanced at Claire in the rearview mirror, his eyes lingering on her tear-streaked face and the frantic way she kept checking her phone.

"You okay back there, lady?"

"Just drive," Claire said, her voice tight. "Anywhere but here."

She directed him to her Carriage House, but had him stop a block away. She walked the rest, keeping to the shadows of the hedges. Her own home felt like enemy territory now. The windows were dark. David’s car was gone.

Good.

She slipped inside, not bothering with the lights. She grabbed a duffel bag from the closet and started throwing clothes into it—jeans, sweaters, anything durable. She packed toiletries, her passport, the kids' birth certificates. She was moving on autopilot, her mind a blur of fear and calculation.

She needed internet access. Secure access.

Her home Wi-Fi was compromised. Arthur monitored everything. The library computers required a library card, which would leave a digital footprint.

The burner phone.

She pulled it out of her pocket. It was a cheap prepaid model with a limited data plan, but it was untraceable. She sat on the edge of the bed, the screen glowing in the dark room.

She typed *Marcus Thorne 1992* into the search bar.

The results were sparse. Marcus had been a junior associate back then, a nobody in a sea of sharks. There were a few mentions in legal journals, a blurb about him passing the bar.

She tried *Marcus Thorne lawsuit 1992*.

Nothing.

She tried *Thorne & Associates settlement*.

A list of cases appeared. Most were corporate mergers, property disputes. But one caught her eye. A civil suit filed in December 1992.

*Estate of Jane Doe vs. Thorne & Associates.*

The case file was sealed, but the summary was public record. A wrongful death suit. Settled out of court for an undisclosed sum.

The plaintiff was listed as "Anonymous." The defendant was Marcus Thorne.

But the date. December 14, 1992. exactly one month after the Real Evelyn died in Ohio.

Claire scrolled down. There was a notation at the bottom of the summary, a reference to a related case number. She clicked it.

*State of New York vs. Jane Doe.*

It was a criminal case. Assault. Battery. The charges were dismissed due to "lack of evidence and witness cooperation."

The date of the incident was November 15, 1992. The day after the Real Evelyn died.

Claire’s breath caught. Someone had been arrested the day after the murder. A Jane Doe. Someone who refused to give her name.

Or someone whose name had been erased.

She tapped the screen, trying to find more details, but the paywall blocked her. *Access Restricted. Official Court Records Request Required.*

She needed a login. She needed Aris.

But she couldn't call him. Not yet.

She went back to the search bar. *Marcus Thorne Jane Doe settlement amount.*

It was a long shot. Settlement amounts were almost always confidential. But sometimes, leaks happened. Sometimes, disgruntled clerks posted things on forums.

She scrolled through pages of legal gossip blogs. Nothing. Nothing.

Then, on page four of the search results, she found a scanned image of a legal ledger from a defunct firm. It was hosted on an archival site for legal history.

*Thorne & Associates - 1992 Disbursements.*

She zoomed in. The text was blurry, hand-written.

*Dec 20. Settlement. Client: A. Vance. Payee: Confidential. Amount: $2,000,000.00.*

Two million dollars. In 1992.

Arthur hadn't just paid off a few staff members. He had paid off an entire legal firm to bury a body—or a person.

Two million dollars to make a Jane Doe disappear.

Claire stared at the screen. The burner phone felt hot in her hand. This was the money trail. This was the proof that Marcus wasn't just Arthur's lawyer; he was his co-conspirator. He had facilitated the payoff. He had drafted the settlement that silenced the victim.

Who was Jane Doe?

Was it Lena? The woman in the red dress? The Imposter?

Or was it someone else? Someone who had tried to speak up?

Claire saved the image to the phone. Then she searched for one more thing.

*Marcus Thorne property records 1992.*

He had bought a brownstone in Brooklyn in January 1993. Paid in cash.

She looked at the date again. January 1993. One month after the settlement.

He had used the hush money to buy his life.

A noise outside made her jump. Tires on gravel. Slow, crunching.

Claire killed the screen. She moved to the window, peering through the slats of the blinds.

A car was idling at the end of the driveway. Not a sedan. A van. Dark windows. No markings.

It wasn't David. It wasn't Sarah.

The side door of the van slid open. Two men stepped out. They weren't wearing uniforms. They were wearing dark clothes, gloves. One of them carried a tool bag.

They weren't here to talk. They were here to clean.

Claire grabbed her duffel bag. She didn't go to the front door. She went to the back, to the small mudroom that led to the garden.

She slipped out into the night, the cold air biting at her face. She kept low, moving behind the hedges, away from the driveway, away from her car. She couldn't use the Volvo. They would be watching it.

She had to run. On foot. With seventy dollars and a burner phone full of ghosts.

She reached the edge of the property, where the manicured lawn gave way to the wilder woods of the nature preserve. She looked back at the house one last time.

The men were at the front door of the Carriage House. One of them was picking the lock.

They were breaking into her home. They were coming for her files. They were coming for her.

Claire turned and ran into the trees, the darkness swallowing her whole. She wasn't just a liability anymore. She was a loose end. And Arthur Vance was tired of loose ends.