By sunrise, the police had a warrant request moving through the system, and Detective Harris had arranged for federal investigators to review the financial records from the blue folder. I sat in the back of an unmarked car with the folder sealed inside an evidence bag on the seat beside me. We were heading toward the airport when Harris received a call that changed the plan.
“Silver Pine is real,” he said after listening for several seconds. “But Derek Morgan isn't registered there.”
I looked at him through the gap between the front seats. “Natalie said he was there.”
“She said she believed he might be.”
“That sounds different.”
“It is.”
The distinction bothered me more than it should have. Natalie had given us the name of the same facility that appeared in Derek's photograph. She had known enough to point the police toward Colorado, yet she had claimed not to know where he was. If she was still protecting him, she had every reason to send us somewhere that would waste our time.
Harris seemed to be thinking the same thing.
“We're going anyway,” he said. “But we're not assuming anything.”
The flight was short enough that I barely remember most of it. I kept seeing the photograph in my mind. Derek standing outside Silver Pine with his silver watch visible beneath his sleeve. Two months after his supposed death, he had been alive, healthy, and apparently comfortable enough to pose for a photograph.
The question that bothered me wasn't whether he had faked the crash anymore.
It was how many people had helped him.
When we arrived in Colorado, two investigators met us at the airport. Harris introduced them as Special Agent Cole and Agent Ramirez. They had already reviewed the financial information and the insurance documents.
Cole held out his hand.
“You're Claire Morgan?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”
I almost smiled.
“There wasn't really a good way.”
He nodded.
“We've been looking into one of the companies listed in your husband's records. It's been under investigation for financial irregularities for over a year.”
I stared at him.
“You knew about Derek?”
“Not Derek specifically. The company.”
“What company?”
“Northstar Recovery Holdings.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Then Ramirez opened a file.
“Silver Pine Recovery Center is owned through that company.”
I felt the air leave my lungs.
“So Derek wasn't just hiding there.”
“No,” Cole said. “He may have been using the facility as part of the operation.”
The drive from the airport took nearly two hours. Mountains rose around us, dark against a pale morning sky. I watched them through the window and wondered how many times Derek had looked at the same landscape while I was grieving him.
At some point, I asked Harris a question I had been avoiding.
“What happens if we find him?”
“We arrest him.”
“And if he runs?”
“He won't get far.”
“You sound certain.”
“We've been preparing for this since last night.”
I looked down at my hands.
“I thought he was dead.”
Harris's expression softened.
“I know.”
“No. I don't think anyone understands that part.”
He waited.
“I spent two years learning how to live with his death. I changed his closet. I stopped buying his favorite coffee. I donated his clothes. I moved his photographs. I learned how to answer people when they asked how I was doing.”
My voice grew quieter.
“And all that time, he was somewhere else.”
Harris didn't offer a comforting phrase.
That was why I appreciated him.
Instead, he said, “Whatever happens next, you don't have to carry it alone.”
Silver Pine appeared behind a line of tall trees.
The facility looked nothing like the dark place I had imagined. It was clean, modern, and expensive, with stone walls, wide windows, and landscaped paths. A fountain ran beside the entrance.
There were no guards visible.
No obvious signs of anything criminal.
Cole showed his credentials at reception.
The woman behind the desk stiffened when she saw the badge.
“We're looking for a former patient,” he said.
“Name?”
“Derek Morgan.”
Her expression changed.
It lasted only a fraction of a second.
But we all saw it.
“I don't believe we have anyone by that name.”
Cole placed the photograph on the desk.
“Do you recognize this man?”
The receptionist looked at it.
Then she looked at me.
“I can't discuss patients.”
“That's not what I asked.”
She swallowed.
“I need to speak with my supervisor.”
She reached beneath the desk.
Ramirez caught her wrist before she could touch whatever was there.
“Don't.”
She froze.
Cole leaned closer.
“Who is the man in this photograph?”
Her eyes filled with fear.
“Mr. Hale.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“Who is Mr. Hale?” I asked.
She looked at me.
“He used another name.”
“What name?”
“Daniel Hale.”
The name meant nothing.
But when Cole heard it, his face changed.
“Daniel Hale is one of the aliases in the financial records.”
Ramirez immediately stepped away from the desk.
“Where is he?”
“He left yesterday.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don't know.”
Cole didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
“You're going to tell us everything you know.”
The woman began crying.
“He wasn't a patient.”
“What was he?”
She looked at me.
“He was a consultant.”
“For what?”
She hesitated.
“Insurance recovery.”
I felt a strange chill.
The facility had been used as a cover.
Derek had not been hiding from the world.
He had been working inside it.
We searched the administrative offices and found records showing payments to Daniel Hale from several companies linked to Derek. There were no photographs, no fingerprints in the obvious places, and no current address.
Then Ramirez found something inside a locked cabinet.
A visitor log.
One name appeared repeatedly.
Natalie Morgan.
I closed my eyes.
“She came here.”
Cole nodded.
“Fourteen visits in the last eighteen months.”
My sister had not simply been helping Derek from a distance.
She had been meeting him.
We found a room assigned to Daniel Hale.
The closet was almost empty.
A few shirts.
A pair of shoes.
A shaving kit.
Then Harris opened the bedside drawer.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed Derek sitting at a restaurant table with Natalie.
They were laughing.
On the back, someone had written a date.
Six weeks after the crash.
I stared at it until the image blurred.
“He was alive.”
“Yes,” Cole said.
“Six weeks after I buried him.”
No one answered.
Behind the photograph was another piece of paper.
A handwritten address.
Not in Colorado.
In Arizona.
I recognized the street immediately.
It was near my mother's old house.
Harris looked at me.
“Do you know this place?”
“Yes.”
My voice came out barely above a whisper.
“That's where Natalie lived before she moved to Phoenix.”
We left Silver Pine with copies of the records.
On the drive back, Harris received another call.
He listened.
Then he looked at me.
“Natalie has disappeared.”
My stomach dropped.
“What do you mean?”
“She didn't return to her apartment.”
“Could Derek have found her?”
“Possibly.”
“Or she could be running.”
Harris nodded.
“That's the other possibility.”
I stared out the window.
For the first time, I understood that Natalie might not simply be an accomplice.
She might also be a witness Derek desperately needed to silence.
And if she knew where the missing money was, she had become more valuable—and more dangerous—than any document in the blue folder.
My phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number appeared.
You should stop looking for him.
I showed it to Harris.
Another message arrived before he could respond.
Because the next person who disappears will not be your sister.
I looked at the mountains fading behind us.
Derek wasn't hiding anymore.
He was moving.
And now he was threatening the people around me.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: Natalie Vanished Before Police Could Reach Her, Leaving Behind a Message That Suggested Derek Had Been Lying About Everything
At 2:14 PM, My Neighbor Heard a Woman Crying Inside the House I Had Sworn Was Completely Empty
Part 5 of 20
