Chapter 5 - THE EMPTY GRAVE
Walter survived.
Barely.
Someone had struck him behind the ear with a heavy object while he was locking the maintenance shed.
The police called it an attempted robbery.
Nothing had been taken.
Nora called that explanation “insultingly convenient.”
By morning, Walter was conscious but sedated.
Detective Wynn allowed me five minutes with him.
Walter looked twenty years older beneath the hospital lights.
“Who attacked you?” I asked.
“Didn't see.”
“You said you saw my father.”
His eyes shifted toward the door.
“Not here.”
“Walter—”
“Not here.”
He squeezed my fingers.
“Your mother's grave.”
Then he closed his eyes.
I left before Wynn could question me.
Nora was waiting in the hallway.
“He told you something.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“My mother's grave.”
We returned to Pinecrest.
Evelyn Dennis had been buried beneath an old magnolia tree.
Dad had chosen the spot because Mom used to say magnolias smelled like summer in Georgia, where she'd grown up.
Her headstone was simple.
EVELYN MARIE DENNIS
BELOVED WIFE, MOTHER, AND FRIEND
There was something new beside it.
Fresh white lilies.
I crouched.
“They weren't here yesterday.”
Nora examined the soil.
“Could be Walter.”
“No. Walter was attacked before he finished closing.”
I noticed something wedged behind the stone.
A plastic bag.
Inside was a note.
Two words.
CHECK CAMDEN.
Nora read it.
“You have a grave for him?”
“No.”
“Then what are we checking?”
I looked across the cemetery.
“Records.”
Walter's office contained burial files going back decades.
Nora had permission from his assistant to review them because we claimed we were helping identify discrepancies after the attack.
There was no burial permit for Camden Dennis.
No cremation authorization.
No death certificate filed with Pinecrest.
Nothing.
Nora searched county records from her laptop.
Ten minutes later, she looked up.
“There is a death certificate.”
My pulse jumped.
“What does it say?”
Camden Dennis.
Age fifty-eight.
Cause: pancreatic cancer.
Place of death: Saint Matthew Private Medical Center.
Attending physician: Dr. Lucas Avery.
Funeral home: Restwell Memorial Services.
Disposition: private cremation.
“That's why there's no grave.”
“Maybe.”
“Can we verify?”
Nora was already dialing.
Restwell Memorial Services had closed eight months ago after its owner disappeared amid tax-fraud allegations.
Saint Matthew Private Medical Center was more interesting.
It existed.
But Dr. Lucas Avery had never worked there.
In fact, Dr. Lucas Avery had died five years earlier.
Nora stared at the death certificate.
“This is fraudulent.”
My father was legally dead based on a document signed by a dead physician.
“How does something like that get accepted?”
“A well-connected person.”
“Judge Hale.”
“Possibly.”
I thought about Walter.
If he had actually seen Dad the night before, then someone was actively hiding him.
Or Dad was hiding himself.
The difference mattered.
“Why wouldn't he contact me?”
Nora didn't answer.
Because we both knew the obvious possibilities.
Maybe he couldn't.
Or maybe he didn't trust me yet.
We drove to Saint Matthew Medical Center.
The administrator initially refused to discuss Dad because of medical privacy.
Then Nora showed the death certificate.
“This document identifies your facility as the place of death. We are investigating potential identity fraud.”
That changed things.
A records supervisor named Elaine pulled archived admissions.
Camden Dennis had indeed been admitted fourteen months ago.
But not for cancer.
“What for?” I asked.
Elaine hesitated.
Nora leaned forward.
“If this record has been falsified, your hospital may be implicated.”
Elaine swallowed.
“Neurological observation.”
“Who ordered it?”
“Dr. Stephen Mercer.”
“Can we speak to him?”
Elaine looked uncomfortable.
“He resigned.”
“When?”
“Three days after Mr. Dennis was discharged.”
“Where did Camden go?”
Elaine searched.
“That is strange.”
“What?”
“There is no standard discharge.”
Instead, Dad had been transferred under court order.
Destination:
Fairhaven Behavioral Recovery Center.
I had never heard of it.
Nora had.
Her face hardened.
“That place lost its license.”
“When?”
“Last year.”
“Why?”
“Patient abuse allegations.”
My stomach turned.
We drove north toward Fairhaven.
The facility sat behind tall iron gates in the hills outside Pasadena.
It was abandoned.
Windows boarded.
Grass waist-high.
A faded sign still carried the cheerful slogan:
A QUIET PLACE TO HEAL.
We entered through a broken section of fence.
Inside smelled like mold.
Patient rooms lined both sides of a central hallway.
Most had been stripped.
Nora found the records room.
Empty cabinets.
Burned paper scattered across the floor.
“Somebody cleaned this place.”
I moved deeper into the building.
Room 214 still had a metal bed frame.
Scratched into the wall beside it were dozens of tally marks.
Then I saw initials.
CD
Camden Dennis.
My throat tightened.
“Dad?”
Of course there was no answer.
Behind the bed frame, I noticed a loose vent cover.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
I pulled it out.
A handwritten note.
FINN — IF YOU FIND THIS, THEY KNOW ABOUT WALTER.
I stared at it.
Dad had known I might come.
Below the sentence:
TRUST HANNAH.
Detective Hannah Cole.
Nora read over my shoulder.
“We need to find her.”
A sound echoed from the hallway.
Glass breaking.
Nora immediately switched off her flashlight.
Someone else was inside the building.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Deliberate.
We moved behind the door.
A flashlight beam swept past.
Then a man entered.
I tackled him before he could react.
He shouted.
“Finnley! Stop!”
I recognized the voice.
Detective Marcus Wynn.
“What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?”
Nora turned on the lights from her phone.
Wynn looked furious.
“You're trespassing on a condemned property.”
“So are you,” Nora said.
“I have police authority.”
“Do you have a warrant?”
He ignored her.
Then he noticed the paper in my hand.
His expression changed.
“Where did you get that?”
“Why?”
“Because I've seen that handwriting.”
I stepped closer.
“Where?”
Wynn took a long breath.
“On letters Detective Hannah Cole left before she disappeared.”
My skin went cold.
“Disappeared?”
“Fourteen months ago.”
“You said she resigned.”
“That was the public story.”
Nora stared at him.
“And the real story?”
Wynn looked toward the dark hallway.
“She opened an internal corruption investigation involving Judge Hale.”
My heart pounded.
“What happened to her?”
“We don't know.”
Then a loud metallic bang came from the rear exit.
We ran outside.
A black SUV was speeding away.
Someone had been listening.
Wynn swore.
Then my phone vibrated.
A new text.
Unknown number.
ROOM 419. COUNTY GENERAL. COME ALONE.
Attached was a photograph.
May you like
My father lying in a hospital bed.
Today's newspaper rested beside him.
