PART 34: THE FALSE BOTTOM
No one waited.
Within thirty minutes, we were standing inside what had once been Harold’s accounting office.
The room had been sealed by the sheriff’s department.
Dust floated through the late-afternoon sunlight.
Most of the furniture had been emptied years ago.
The filing cabinets stood open.
Desk drawers lay scattered across the floor.
It looked as though someone had searched every inch of the place.
Linda held up the small brass nameplate Harold had carved.
LOOK UNDER THE FALSE BOTTOM.
The sheriff pointed toward the old oak desk in the corner.
“That’s the only one still here.”
I stared at it.
Harold had bought that desk the year Paula started kindergarten.
I remembered helping him polish it every Sunday evening.
He used to joke,
“A good desk should keep two things.”
“Honest books…”
“…and honest secrets.”
At the time, I thought he was teasing.
Now…
I wasn’t so sure.
The deputies carefully pulled the center drawer free.
It looked ordinary.
Empty.
One of them shrugged.
“Nothing.”
“No,” I said quietly.
“Harold never wrote instructions for nothing.”
Linda turned the drawer upside down.
She tapped the wood with her knuckles.
Solid.
Then…
Near the back corner…
A dull sound.
Not quite hollow.
Not quite solid.
She smiled.
“There.”
Using a thin pocketknife, she slipped the blade beneath the wooden panel.
A hidden piece of oak lifted no more than half an inch.
Everyone leaned forward.
Inside the narrow compartment…
lay a small black notebook wrapped in oilcloth.
Nothing else.
No money.
No deeds.
No photographs.
Just one notebook.
I reached for it with trembling hands.
The leather cover had cracked with age.
Across the front, in Harold’s unmistakable handwriting, were three words.
READ THIS LAST
Thomas let out a long breath.
“He knew.”
“He knew someone would find everything else first.”
Linda carefully opened the notebook.
The first page wasn’t a confession.
It wasn’t evidence.
It was a list.
Twenty names.
Every name had a number beside it.
I immediately recognized several.
Janice Holloway.
William Ashcroft.
Judge Leonard Whitcomb.
Richard Vaughn.
Target numbers.
Dates.
Connections.
Then my eyes stopped.
Name number twenty.
Not mine.
Not Paula’s.
Not Dale’s.
The name read:
Harold Ellis.
My heart skipped.
Harold had listed himself.
Beside his own name…
he had written only one sentence.
“If my name is ever moved to the bottom…they know I’ve discovered them.”
Linda frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Thomas slowly turned another page.
A second list appeared.
The same twenty names.
But this time…
Harold’s name was at the very bottom.
Circled in red ink.
Father Donnelly’s voice echoed in my memory.
“Harold knew a month before he died.”
He hadn’t been guessing.
He had known.
Someone had identified him.
Someone had marked him.
Janice suddenly grabbed the notebook.
“Wait.”
“What?”
She pointed toward the inside cover.
Tiny writing had been squeezed into the margin.
So small we almost missed it.
Linda took out a magnifying glass from her briefcase.
She read the words aloud.
If you’re reading this, don’t waste another minute proving what happened to me.
Prove what they’re about to do next.
Silence settled over the room.
The sheriff looked up.
“Next?”
Linda slowly closed the notebook.
“They’re still operating.”
“They’re planning another victim.”
At that exact moment, one of the deputies ran into the office carrying a printed email.
“Sheriff!”
“What is it?”
“The bank just forwarded this from William Ashcroft’s office.”
The sheriff unfolded the page.
His expression changed instantly.
“Read it,” Linda said.
He did.
Subject: Approval for Target 21
No one moved.
The sheriff swallowed hard.
“The email…”
“…was sent this morning.”
And at the bottom…
next to the approval line…
was a digital signature.
Leonard Whitcomb, Retired Judge.
