Daniel returned the following morning.
I placed Matthew's notebook on the table.
He examined the page carefully without touching it.
“Where did this come from?”
“It was among his things.”
“Do you know what the number means?”
“No.”
Henry stood beside me.
“I've never seen it before.”
Daniel compared it with his notes.
“The first sequence matches.”
“Exactly?”
“Yes.”
My pulse quickened.
“What does that tell you?”
“Not enough yet.”
I disliked the answer.
Daniel noticed.
“We need to establish when Matthew wrote this.”
I looked at the page.
There was no date.
“How?”
“Handwriting analysis may help establish whether it was written around the same period.”
Henry frowned.
“But what would Matthew have been writing down?”
“That is what we need to determine.”
I stared at the notebook.
Suddenly every ordinary list looked suspicious.
A repair note.
A grocery reminder.
A name.
A number.
I hated what the investigation was doing to my memories.
Things that had once seemed harmless now appeared capable of carrying meaning.
Daniel asked whether Matthew had worked with anyone who might recognize the number.
I thought.
“He had business contacts.”
“Anyone connected to transportation?”
I shook my head.
“Not directly.”
“Construction?”
“No.”
“Insurance?”
I paused.
“His employer dealt with insurance occasionally.”
Daniel wrote something down.
“What was his position?”
“Operations.”
Henry answered before I could.
“He handled contracts and logistics.”
Daniel looked up.
“That's useful.”
“Why?”
“A license plate number could have been recorded because of a delivery, a vehicle inspection, a vendor, any number of ordinary reasons.”
I nodded.
“So we don't know whether the number relates to the crash.”
“Correct.”
I felt disappointed.
Then embarrassed by my disappointment.
I wanted the mystery to mean something.
But real life did not work like that.
A number was only a number until evidence gave it meaning.
Daniel left the notebook with us while he continued checking records.
That evening, I sat in the nursery while our son slept.
Henry stood at the door.
“You're thinking too much.”
“I know.”
He came inside.
“You're trying to connect everything.”
“Maybe.”
He sat beside me.
“Do you remember what the doctor told us?”
“What?”
“That stress doesn't solve problems.”
I smiled.
“Did you memorize that?”
“No.”
“You did.”
He laughed.
I leaned against his shoulder.
“I don't want to become obsessed.”
“You won't.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you're too practical.”
I looked at him.
“You've never called me practical before.”
“I've been afraid.”
I laughed softly.
Then Henry's expression changed.
“There is something I haven't told you.”
My smile disappeared.
“What?”
He looked toward the sleeping baby.
“After the accident, I found something near the road.”
“What?”
“A piece of paper.”
My heart tightened.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I didn't think it mattered.”
“What was on it?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know?”
“It was wet. Most of the writing was gone.”
“Where is it?”
Henry hesitated.
“I don't have it.”
I stared at him.
“What happened to it?”
“I gave it to the police.”
“Was it in the report?”
“I don't remember.”
I stood.
“Henry.”
“I know.”
“You said there were no more secrets.”
“There aren't.”
“You just remembered a piece of paper?”
“I remembered it because of the notebook.”
I stared at him.
“What did it look like?”
“White. Torn on one side.”
“Anything else?”
“A few letters.”
“Which ones?”
He closed his eyes.
“I remember an M.”
My stomach tightened.
“Matthew?”
“I don't know.”
I sat back down.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I said, “We need to find the report.”
The next day, Daniel searched the old evidence records.
The paper had been logged.
It had not been analyzed.
It had been stored with miscellaneous evidence.
When Daniel told us, I felt a strange mixture of relief and fear.
“What does it say?”
“We haven't examined it yet.”
“Why?”
“Because the original file was archived.”
He arranged for the evidence to be reviewed.
Two days later, he called.
“There's writing.”
My heart jumped.
“What does it say?”
“Very little.”
“Tell me.”
“There are three visible letters.”
“What letters?”
Daniel paused.
“M. A. R.”
I looked at Henry.
“Mar?”
“Possibly.”
“Could it be a name?”
“It could be anything.”
The uncertainty was unbearable.
Then Daniel added something.
“There is also part of a telephone number.”
My hands went cold.
“Does it match the notebook?”
“We don't know yet.”
The next hour seemed endless.
Finally, Daniel called again.
“It does.”
I closed my eyes.
Henry was standing beside me.
“What does that mean?”
“It means the number in Matthew's notebook and the number on the paper are connected somehow.”
“Can you identify it?”
“Yes.”
“Whose is it?”
Daniel paused.
“The number belonged to a company.”
“What company?”
He gave us the name.
I did not recognize it.
Henry did.
His face changed.
“I know them.”
I turned.
“How?”
“They were one of Matthew's vendors.”
Daniel asked, “Did you know anyone there?”
“Only one person.”
“Who?”
Henry said the name.
Eleanor, who had been listening from the kitchen, dropped a glass.
It shattered against the floor.
We all turned.
She looked terrified.
I had never seen her react that way to a name.
“Eleanor?”
She didn't answer.
Henry moved toward her.
“Mom.”
She stared at him.
“You shouldn't have said that.”
My heart began racing.
“Why?”
Eleanor looked at me.
Her face was pale.
“Because Matthew knew him.”
“Who?”
She whispered the name again.
“He came to our house once.”
“When?”
“Before the accident.”
I looked at Henry.
“You knew?”
“No.”
Eleanor shook her head.
“Matthew didn't want you involved.”
I felt a familiar chill.
“Why?”
She looked toward the window.
“Because Matthew had become suspicious.”
“Of what?”
She didn't answer.
I stepped closer.
“Eleanor, please.”
Her hands began to shake.
“He thought someone was following him.”
The room fell silent.
I remembered Matthew's final weeks.
The way he had sometimes checked the driveway.
The phone calls he had taken in another room.
The night he had told me not to open the door for anyone he hadn't expected.
I had forgotten all of it.
Or perhaps I had buried it.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I thought it was paranoia.”
“Was it?”
Eleanor looked at me.
“I don't know.”
Daniel spoke carefully.
“We need to understand why he wrote that number.”
I nodded.
“What happens now?”
“We contact the company.”
“And the man?”
“If he's still alive and available, we interview him.”
I looked at Henry.
He was staring at the floor.
“You knew him.”
“Only professionally.”
“But you recognized the name.”
“Yes.”
“Did Matthew ever tell you he was afraid of him?”
“No.”
I believed Henry.
But belief was no longer enough to quiet the questions.
That night, I opened Matthew's notebook again.
I searched every page.
Nothing.
Then I found another mark.
A small line beside the number.
Not a word.
Just a symbol.
A triangle.
I stared at it.
Henry leaned over my shoulder.
“What is that?”
“I don't know.”
I turned the page.
There was another triangle.
Then another.
Three in total.
All beside different entries.
One of the entries was dated three days before the accident.
My heartbeat quickened.
“Henry.”
He leaned closer.
“What?”
“This wasn't random.”
He looked at the page.
The three symbols formed a pattern.
And beside the last one, Matthew had written two words.
“Ask Henry.”
I looked up.
Henry had gone completely still.
