Chapter 2:

The Missing Piece

I flinched awake and for a moment, I couldn't remember why I'd fallen asleep on the couch instead of my bed.

Then my eyes drifted to the bookshelf; my mother's photograph was still gone.

There was only a pale rectangle where years of dust had failed to settle.

I could feel a dull ache settling in my chest and a part of me had hoped the previous night had been nothing more than a vivid nightmare brought on by exhaustion.

I managed to push myself to my feet, my neck stiff from sleeping in an awkward position, and crossed into the kitchen.

I dropped a tea bag into my favorite mug, poured hot water, then leaned against the counter while it brewed.

I never took a sip.

The cream-colored envelope still rested on the coffee table.

I looked toward the empty shelf again.

Why the photograph?

If someone had wanted to hurt me, they would've done far more than steal an old picture.

I carried my mug to the coffee table and opened the notebook I'd abandoned just before dawn, drew a line, and made a list:

John died before we met, mum's photo is gone, and someone wants me to stop digging.

What was John going to reveal if that meeting had happened?

Because he agreed to speak about the records to me for a reason.

If there was anyone who could still point me toward the truth, it was him or whatever he had left behind.

I closed the notebook and slipped it into my bag, grabbed my jacket, and headed for the door.

Whatever John had been trying to tell me before he died...

The pieces would definitely be somewhere, somehow…

John couldn't answer my questions anymore.

But people rarely died without leaving something behind.

I'm sure he'd left it behind.

And I intended to find it.

Arriving at John's place at Ashcroft Apartments, everything looked ordinary.

Just yesterday, the building had been swarming with police officers, reporters and curious neighbours.

And this morning, a delivery driver was arguing over a parking space while someone walked a golden retriever past the entrance.

It's unbelievable that life had already moved on in barely forty-eight hours.

Only the bouquet of white lilies resting beside the front steps hinted that someone had died there.

Inside, the reception desk was empty and the radio played softly from somewhere down the hallway.

I rang the service bell. A man emerged from a back office, wiping his hands with a blue cleaning cloth.

He looked at me, then at the press card hanging around my neck.

"The police are gone," he said before I spoke.

"I'm not looking for the police."

"Then why are you here?"

"I'd like to ask you a few questions about John Wilton."

He folded the cloth neatly and placed it on the counter.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I have the answers you're looking for."

“I'm Aria Bennett”

"I know," he said causally.

"You've seen my work?"

"I've seen your face."

He nodded toward the newspaper folded on the reception desk.

Yesterday's edition. My byline sat just below the headline. Fair enough.

"I won't take much of your time," I said. "I just need to know whether Mr. Wilton mentioned anyone visiting him before he died."

Frank's expression flattened a bit.

"I wouldn't know."

"You manage the building."

"I manage broken pipes and late rent."

"Who manages the tenants?"

"I'm just minding my business,” he said.

Then I sighted two electricians standing at the far end of the corridor beneath an open ceiling panel.

One of them climbed down a ladder carrying something wrapped in black plastic, about the size of a shoebox.

He passed through a side door before I could get a better look.

I pointed toward the hallway.

"Are they doing some renovations?"

"No, routine maintenance."

"What kind?"

"The usual."

"The usual doesn't normally require electricians."

"Miss Bennett..."

He leaned forward slightly and said

"I think I should go now."

For a second, neither of us spoke.

Then I thanked him and turned toward the exit.

His voice stopped me just before I reached the door.

"His wife came early this morning."

I looked back.

"Mrs. Wilton?"

He nodded in agreement.

"She cleared out the apartment."

"Did she say where she was going?"

"No."

"Did she leave anything behind?"

"I don't think she'd want me answering that." He answered rather hesitant

I knew it wasn't a no.

It was enough to tell me that John's story hadn't ended with his death.

I walked into my car and left for the office.

Reporters were going in and out of the conference room carrying notepads and coffee cups.

No one noticed me going in as they were busy arguing over headlines and deadlines past.

Good, because I wasn't in the mood for questions.

I sat on my desk and opened my laptop, then typed John Wilton into the archives.

Dozens of results appeared but most were routine old interviews, financial columns, and community projects he'd volunteered for after retiring.

Nothing that explained why a man like John would call an investigative reporter thrice then suddenly died a few hours after.

I narrowed the search to Moreto Foundation and a flood of articles appeared on the screen.

With scholarship launches, hospital donations, flood relief and some school renovations.

The Moreto name appeared everywhere but seemed too clean.

Not even a single controversy, scandals or lawsuits.

For a family half the city feared, their public record was almost spotless.

The records bothered me more than it'd be if I found dirt.

It was unusual for anybody to stay that clean for such a long time.

I opened another database and searched through corporate filings.

Company after company with different names, directors and addresses popped up.

Yet the money kept flowing through the same handful of financial institutions before ending up inside the foundation.

I grabbed my notebook and wrote

“One bank, three holding companies, five charities, different roads but same destination.”

This looked more like a carefully built structure.

"You've skipped lunch." David said.

I replied, "So have you." without looking up.

"I've had coffee."

"Coffee doesn't replace lunch"

"It does after the third cup."

He pulled a chair beside me and sat, scanning his eyes through my notes.

"You went to John's building?"

"I did."

"And?"

"The apartment is empty."

"That wasn't unexpected," he said.

"The security cameras disappeared too."

“For real?” He pulled closer, then looked at me for a long second.

"Did Frank tell you that?"

"The building manager did. I didn't get his name."

“That's Frank.”

“You know him?”

"I know enough people."

"David..."

I turned my chair toward him.

"What exactly are you afraid of?"

He didn't reply immediately. Instead, he reached for my notebook, closed it gently, and pushed it back toward me.

"You're asking the wrong questions."

"Then tell me the right one." I said, frowning at him.

David leaned closer. "Ask why he called you."

He stood before I could respond.

"And when you figure that out..."

He looked back over his shoulder.

"...you'll understand why he never made that meeting."

Then, I went into his office.

I sat there for several minutes staring at the closed notebook.

Desperate for a clue, I searched John's name one last time, looking for patterns, companies he'd audited, even clients he'd worked with and down to the boards he'd served on.

Most of it was ordinary construction firms and logistics companies.

A manufacturing business that had folded years ago caught my attention.

“Crescent Meridian Holdings.”

It appeared only once about seven years ago.

John had signed off on an external audit before resigning three months later.

I clicked the company profile and it showed the record unavailable.

I tried again, same result.

I refreshed, nothing. Searched another database, still nothing.

It was suspicious because corporate records didn't simply disappear.

They were either archived, merged, or renamed but not just vanishing unless someone wanted them to.

I wrote the company name in my notebook and circled it twice.

Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it meant everything.

Either way, it wasn't getting crossed off.

A knock landed lightly against the edge of my desk.

I looked up and it was Mia from Research standing there with two takeaway cups.

"I figured you forgot lunch again."

"I didn't forget."

She handed me one of the cups before dropping into the chair opposite mine.

"I heard about John."

"So did everyone else."

"They're saying it was his heart."

I peeled the lid from the cup.

"People say a lot of things."

She studied me for a moment.

"You don't believe it."

"No."

"Do you have proof?"

"Not yet."

She nodded slowly, as though she'd expected that answer.

"Just... be careful."

I laughed softly.

"When did everyone become so protective of me?"

"When everyone started looking over their shoulders."

She regretted the words the moment they left her mouth.

"I didn't mean…"

"I know what you meant."

She stood, brushing the crumbs from her skirt.

"If you need anything from archives, let me know before five. They're migrating the server tonight."

"Thanks."

She had taken only a few steps before I called after her.

"Mia."

She turned.

"Have you ever heard of Crescent Meridian Holdings?"

Her expression was blank.

"Should I have?"

"I was hoping you'd say yes."

She shook her head.

"Sorry."

After she left, I looked back at the notebook.

Three names had become four.

John Wilton.

Moreto Foundation.

Crescent Meridian Holdings.

The list was growing with more confusion.

By the time I shut down my computer, most of the newsroom had emptied.

The cleaning staff had started their work.

Somewhere across the room, David's office light was still on.

I considered going back.

Asking him what he knew about Crescent Meridian, why he'd looked so uneasy when I mentioned the missing cameras and why he seemed convinced John had died for a reason no one wanted to be known.

Instead...

I closed my notebook and looked down at the obituary I ignored earlier.

There wasn't much to it. Just a smiling photograph with a few lines about a devoted husband and father.

Then I remembered “Mrs Wilton?”

If John had trusted anyone with the truth...

It would have been his wife.

And if she chose t

o speak to me, everything could change.

My eyes dropped to the final lines.

Funeral Service at St. Andrew's Chapel. 11:00 a.m. Tomorrow.

I tore the page from the printer and slipped it inside my notebook.

Tomorrow, I.was going to attend a funeral.

I didn't know whether Margaret Wilton would agree to speak to me...

Or tell me to stay away from her family.

Either way... I was going.