Chapter 3 - The Picture Noah HidDetective Morales did not question Noah again that night.
That surprised me.
I expected police to push for details immediately, but she explained that because of Noah’s age and the abuse allegation, they wanted a trained forensic interviewer to speak with him in a child-friendly environment.
“Children can be suggestible,” she said. “We need his statement clean.”
The word clean made me uncomfortable.
My son was bruised and wearing a splint.
Nothing about this was clean.
But I understood.
“What happens now?”
“Emergency protective measures are being initiated. Your ex-wife and Travis are both being located.”
“Located?”
“They haven’t been found yet.”
I stared at her.
“You had their plate.”
“The SUV was found abandoned near South Boulevard.”
“Abandoned?”
“Yes.”
“Then where are they?”
“We’re working on it.”
She paused.
“And there’s something else.”
Marcus, standing beside the vending machine, looked up.
Morales continued.
“The vehicle was registered to Daniel Pike.”
The name from the photograph.
The man Marcus had seen with Travis.
“The alleged illegal bookmaker?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Why is my ex-wife driving his SUV?”
“We don’t know.”
That answer was becoming increasingly infuriating.
I went home at three in the morning with Noah asleep against me and Marcus carrying our hospital bag.
A judge had approved temporary emergency custody until a hearing could be held.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead I checked every lock twice.
Marcus stood in my kitchen while I settled Noah into my bed.
I had prepared a bedroom for him after the divorce—space rockets on the walls, a blue comforter, shelves filled with toy trucks—but that night I couldn't put him anywhere I couldn't immediately reach.
When I returned downstairs, Marcus had made coffee.
Neither of us touched it.
“You knew something was wrong,” I said.
He looked at me across the kitchen island.
“With Rachel?”
“You said you drove past her house.”
Marcus rubbed both hands over his face.
For the first time since he had arrived, he looked exhausted.
“About six weeks ago, Noah called me.”
I froze.
“What?”
“He had my number memorized from before Dana died. Remember how she taught him?”
I remembered.
Dana used to make games out of numbers with Noah.
His birthday.
My phone number.
Marcus’s.
“What did he say?”
“He asked if I could come get him.”
“And you didn't tell me?”
“I tried to ask what happened. Then the phone disconnected. I called back and Rachel answered.”
“What did she say?”
“That Noah had stolen her phone because he missed me.”
“And you believed that?”
“No.”
“Then why didn't you tell me?”
His expression hardened.
“Because we weren’t speaking, Evan.”
“That’s your excuse?”
“No. It’s the reason. There’s a difference.”
I stepped toward him.
“My son was being hurt.”
“And I didn't know that.”
“He called you for help.”
“I know.”
His voice cracked sharply enough to stop me.
Marcus looked away.
“I know.”
Silence filled the kitchen.
“When I drove over that night,” he continued, “Rachel answered the door. Noah was asleep. She wouldn't let me inside. Travis came downstairs and asked why I was bothering his family.”
“His family.”
“Yeah.”
Marcus flexed his injured shoulder unconsciously.
“I wanted to put him through a wall. Instead, I drove away because I knew if I started a fight on Rachel’s porch, she’d use it against you.”
“So you started checking the house.”
“Sometimes.”
“Why not tell me?”
“Because I had nothing except a bad feeling.”
I laughed bitterly.
“We were idiots.”
“Yeah.”
“Two grown men too proud to speak while Noah—”
“Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll drown in that if you let yourself.”
I stared at him.
Eight months of anger suddenly seemed pathetic.
“Dana would've called us both morons.”
A tiny smile touched Marcus’s mouth.
“She did that when she was alive.”
For the first time that night, something inside me loosened.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
Marcus saw my expression.
“Speaker.”
I answered.
No one spoke.
“Hello?”
Static.
Then Rachel.
“Evan?”
I almost dropped the phone.
“Where are you?”
“I need you to listen.”
“You watched him hit Noah.”
“It wasn't supposed to happen.”
My entire body went rigid.
“What wasn't supposed to happen?”
“Any of this.”
“Our son has a broken arm.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
She began crying.
“Travis lost control.”
“And you left Noah there.”
“I didn't have a choice.”
“Yes, you did.”
“You don’t understand.”
“No, Rachel. I understand exactly what matters. You left our four-year-old bleeding in a house with the man who hurt him.”
Marcus silently pointed toward my phone and mouthed, keep her talking.
“Where are you?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Are you with Travis?”
Silence.
“Rachel.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if I leave, he’ll kill me.”
That changed something.
Not forgiveness.
Not remotely.
But the conversation shifted.
“Who is Daniel Pike?”
She stopped breathing for a beat.
“Who told you that name?”
“The police know.”
“Oh God.”
“Tell me.”
“I can't.”
“Rachel, Noah said he hid a picture of you giving a bad man money.”
A muffled sound came through the line.
Then Rachel whispered, “He saw that?”
“What picture?”
“I thought Travis deleted it.”
“Rachel.”
She began speaking quickly.
“Daniel runs games. Sports, cards, loans. Travis owed him money before we met. A lot of money.”
“How much?”
“I don't know anymore. Maybe sixty thousand.”
My mouth went dry.
“Where did you get sixty thousand dollars?”
“I didn't.”
“What did Noah photograph?”
“I was giving Daniel fifteen thousand.”
“From where?”
Silence.
“Rachel?”
“Our account.”
“What account?”
“The education account.”
For several seconds, I couldn't understand.
Then I did.
The college fund.
The account my parents had started when Noah was born.
The account containing nearly ninety thousand dollars.
“You stole from Noah.”
“I was going to put it back.”
“Stop saying things like that.”
“Travis said Daniel would hurt us.”
“You could have called police.”
“You don’t know Daniel.”
“And apparently I didn't know you.”
She sobbed.
Then I heard a male voice in the distance.
Rachel went silent.
“Who’s there?”
No answer.
“Rachel?”
“Evan, listen. Find what Noah hid.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“Then help me.”
“He takes pictures with the old tablet. The blue one.”
I remembered the battered tablet Noah used for games.
“Why does Travis want the picture?”
“Because Daniel isn't just taking money.”
“What does that mean?”
But the male voice came closer.
Rachel whispered, “I have to go.”
“Where are you?”
“Protect Noah.”
“I am.”
“And Evan?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
The line disconnected.
Marcus was already writing down the number.
“We give this to Morales.”
I nodded.
But my mind was stuck on Rachel’s words.
Find what Noah hid.
We went upstairs.
Noah was sleeping.
The old blue tablet was not in his overnight bag.
Marcus and I searched my house anyway, then stopped ourselves.
If Noah hid it, it was almost certainly at Rachel’s.
Police had sealed the property as part of the investigation.
At eight that morning, Detective Morales called.
I told her everything.
She arranged for me to accompany investigators through the house because I could identify Noah’s belongings.
We arrived just after ten.
In daylight, the house looked ordinary again.
That made it worse.
Yellow evidence markers remained near the living room.
The baseball bat was gone.
Bloodstains had been photographed and sampled.
I followed Morales upstairs to Noah’s room.
Tiny planets hung from the ceiling.
His pajamas were folded over a chair.
A stuffed shark sat on the pillow.
I opened drawers.
Closet bins.
Toy boxes.
No tablet.
Then I remembered something Noah used to do at my house.
Whenever we played pirates, he hid “treasure” in places adults never checked.
Inside toys.
I crouched beside his plastic fire truck.
Nothing.
A dinosaur with a removable belly.
Nothing.
Then I saw a stuffed brown bear sitting near the bed.
One of its seams had been ripped open.
I picked it up.
Something hard shifted inside.
“Detective.”
Morales came over.
She put on gloves and carefully opened the torn seam.
A blue tablet slid out.
Along with a small black notebook.
Morales looked at me.
“That yours?”
“No.”
She opened it.
Numbers filled every page.
Dates.
Initials.
Dollar amounts.
Some entries were five thousand.
Some twenty.
Some more than fifty.
Morales’s face changed.
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure.”
But she was lying.
She knew enough to be worried.
An evidence technician powered up the tablet.
No password.
The photo gallery opened.
There were dozens of pictures only a four-year-old would take.
A ceiling fan.
Half a sandwich.
His toes.
A cartoon on television.
Then we reached the night Marcus had seen Daniel Pike outside.
Noah had apparently been sitting halfway up the stairs.
The first photo showed Rachel near the kitchen.
The second showed her handing Daniel an envelope.
The third showed Travis standing behind them.
And the fourth changed everything.
Daniel Pike had opened a black duffel bag on the kitchen counter.
Inside were stacks of cash.
Beside the cash was a badge.
A police badge.
Morales enlarged the image.
Her face went completely still.
“You recognize it,” I said.
She didn't answer.
“Whose badge is it?”
Morales zoomed closer.
The badge number became visible.
Then she looked at the evidence technician.
“Call Internal Affairs.”
My pulse accelerated.
“Whose badge?”
This time she answered.
“Lieutenant Warren Bell.”
“And who is that?”
May you like
Her eyes met mine.
“My commanding officer.”
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