Chapter 8
I packed while the sky was still gray.
The notice from my landlord lay facedown on the kitchen counter, but I could feel it there anyway. My shifts at the Vale Civic Foundation had been cut to zero. The recommendation Martin had written for my apartment was being withdrawn, which meant the landlord could reconsider my lease before it ended. None of it said eviction. None of it needed to. Martin understood how to make a threat look like paperwork.
I took one small canvas bag from the closet and filled it with two changes of clothes, toiletries, my charger, and the plain cardigan I wore when I needed to look less noticeable. The white dress stayed on its hanger. So did the burgundy sandals. I had no reason to take reminders of the garage.
I checked the light-colored smartphone before putting it into my handbag. The photographs of the grant records were still there. So were the messages from Martin and the short recording I had made before the opening event. I had copied everything onto two small drives, wrapped one in a clean sock, and placed the other beneath the lining of my bag. I kept the phone in my hand until the last moment.
Eli waited outside in a dark sedan with no foundation decal, no polished trim, nothing that invited a second look. His hood was down, and the sunglasses were gone. Without them, he looked younger than I had expected, though the guarded set of his mouth remained.
“Did you decide where we’re going?” he asked.
“I did.” I locked the apartment and held the key for a second before sliding it into my pocket. “There’s a motel near Bellweather. It’s outside the neighboring town, close enough for a bus if I need one, and far enough that Martin won’t expect me to be there.”
Eli nodded. “I can take you.”
“You can drive. I choose the route, and I decide when we stop.”
“Agreed.”
The county road narrowed after we left town. Bare trees stood behind wire fences, and fields opened on both sides in long brown strips. Eli kept both hands on the wheel. He didn’t ask me to explain what I had packed or why I kept checking my phone.
After twenty minutes, he said, “My notes don’t line up perfectly.”
I looked over. “What does that mean?”
“I tracked complaints connected to the foundation through public filings, archived newsletters, and people who were willing to talk off the record. I have dates, names, partial payment records. But some of the dates are approximate.” His jaw tightened. “I don’t want you treating my notes like proof.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want you to verify every date against something independent. Emails. Bank records. Receipts. Anything with a reliable timestamp.”
The request steadied me more than reassurance would have. “You’re asking me to check your work.”
“I’m asking you not to trust me just because I’m helping.”
We drove in silence for another mile. Then I opened my phone and searched the old program files.
“Nora Bell,” I said. “She ran the neighborhood meal program Martin used in the donor presentations. Her grant payment was reduced halfway through the term.”
Eli glanced at me, then back at the road. “You know where she is?”
“I have an old email address.”
“Do you want me to contact her?”
“No.” I copied the address into a note. “I’ll do it. If she agrees to talk, she needs to know it’s my choice, not an investigation closing around her.”
The motel was smaller than it appeared online, with two floors, faded blue doors, and a vending machine humming beside the office. The clerk gave me a room key without asking questions. My room smelled faintly of detergent and old carpet, but the deadbolt worked, the window latched, and the parking lot was visible from the bed.
Eli set my bag inside the door and stepped back.
“I’ll take the room across the lot,” he said. “You won’t have to let me in.”
I put the handbag on the table and took out my phone. My hands were shaking, but not from fear alone. I opened the email account and typed Nora’s name.
Before sending, I read the message twice.
My name is Mina Han. I worked with the Vale Civic Foundation when your grant was reduced. I’m reviewing the records and would like to ask what happened, only if you’re comfortable. You don’t have to answer.
May you like
I pressed send.
The screen showed the message leaving. For the first time since Martin began closing doors around me, I wasn't trying to disappear behind one. I was choosing who might be able to see what had happened.
