Chapter 4: Echoes of Rebecca
The hallway seemed to violently tilt on its axis. I grabbed the edge of the stair banister to keep from collapsing. The sterile scent of the bleach suddenly smelled like a graveyard.
“Was he… was Ethan investigated when she vanished?” I choked out, the words tasting like ash.
“I cannot discuss the details of an open cold case, ma’am,” Miller deflected smoothly. “I need to know exactly when you and Ethan commenced your romantic relationship.”
“About seven months after she supposedly left him,” I replied, doing the brutal math in my head. I had been the rebound. The safe, oblivious sanctuary he ran to after whatever happened to Rebecca.
Suddenly, a patrol officer burst through the front door, his hand resting on his utility belt. “Boss. Suspect vehicle spotted. He parked two streets over. He’s approaching on foot.”
“Secure all entry points,” Miller barked. “Keep the women out of sight.”
I was shoved into the kitchen with Clare, the swinging door blocking our view of the foyer. I pressed my back against the refrigerator, holding my breath. Minutes ticked by like hours. Then, a heavy, hesitant knock echoed from the front door.
I heard the door creak open. I heard the scuffle of boots on the porch.
“Ethan Pierce,” an officer announced loudly. “Keep your hands where we can see them.”
I strained to listen. I expected Ethan to yell for me, to demand an explanation, to throw a fit of righteous indignation about cops in his house. Instead, I heard Detective Miller’s low voice say a single name.
“Rebecca.”
There was no shout of denial. There was no desperate plea of innocence. There was only the horrifying sound of my husband’s voice, flat and entirely defeated.
“I will not say another word without my attorney present.”
That singular sentence shattered the last fragile pane of glass in my mind. An innocent man screams from the rooftops. A guilty man calls a lawyer.
The police did not drag him inside in handcuffs. They kept him detained in the back of a cruiser outside while the house was systematically dismantled. Hours bled into the late afternoon. Eventually, Detective Miller returned to the kitchen, laying out several glossy photographs on the island. They were images of the papers found inside the sealed pouch.
“They aren’t letters,” Miller explained, tracing the edges of the images. “They are financial receipts.”
One receipt was for a long-term, cash-only rental at a remote storage facility, dated exactly six years ago. The second was a staggering invoice for professional-grade floor sanders, biological solvents, and heavy plastic sheeting, purchased a mere three days after Rebecca Lane was officially reported missing.
But it was the third piece of paper that made the breath lodge in my throat. It was a crude, handwritten deed transfer. It listed the address of the very house we were standing in.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered. “Ethan bought this house through a standard real estate broker. It was a normal sale.”
“According to county property records, it wasn’t a standard sale,” Miller corrected. “It was an off-market transfer. And your husband didn’t own this property when Rebecca vanished. Someone else did.”
He tapped a name printed at the bottom of the deed. Arthur Lane.
I shook my head, lost. “Who is Arthur Lane?”
Beside me, Clare let out a sharp gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. She stared at the paper as if it were a venomous snake. “Oh my god. I know that name.”
Miller looked at her sharply. “From where, Doctor?”
“From forensics seminars,” Clare breathed, her eyes darting between me and the detective. “Arthur Lane was a person of interest in multiple case studies regarding missing persons. He is—he was—Rebecca’s father.”
