PART 35: TARGET TWENTY-ONE
The room went silent.
No one looked away from the printed email.
Subject: Approval for Target 21
Sent.
Not twenty-eight years ago.
Not four years ago.
This morning.
The sheriff read it again, more slowly this time.
“Approval for Target Twenty-One.”
He lowered the paper.
“That means they’re still choosing victims.”
Linda nodded.
“And following the same system Harold discovered.”
Thomas pointed to the notebook.
“Look.”
Harold hadn’t simply written names.
He had drawn arrows.
Each target connected to another.
Each property connected to another.
Each person connected to someone in authority.
Banks.
Law firms.
County offices.
Judges.
It wasn’t a list.
It was a map.
Janice whispered,
“They built a machine.”
Linda traced one finger across Harold’s notes.
“No.”
“They built a chain.”
“And every person believed they only handled one small part.”
The sheriff looked at the email again.
“Can we identify Target Twenty-One?”
The deputy shook his head.
“The attachment is missing.”
“What about the sender?”
“It came from a private server.”
“Can you trace it?”
“Our cyber unit is trying.”
I reached for Harold’s notebook.
Something had been bothering me.
Harold never wasted space.
Every mark meant something.
Near the bottom corner of one page…
I noticed three tiny blue dots.
Not ink stains.
Intentional marks.
Exactly three.
I turned the page.
Three more dots.
Another page.
Again.
Always in the same corner.
Linda leaned closer.
“What are you looking at?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Thomas suddenly smiled.
“Not dots.”
“What?”
He pointed toward the window.
“They’re Braille reference marks.”
Everyone stared at him.
“My wife was a teacher for blind students.”
“I’ve seen this trick before.”
“They aren’t letters.”
“They’re page numbers.”
Linda carefully arranged the marked pages side by side.
The dots formed a sequence.
Three.
Four.
One.
Seven.
“Three…four…one…seven…” Paula whispered.
“What does that mean?”
Father Donnelly slowly opened his eyes.
“The hymn book.”
Every head turned.
“What?”
He smiled faintly.
“Harold loved hiding messages inside hymn numbers.”
“He knew no one would think they mattered.”
Thomas hurried to the bookshelf in the office.
Most of Harold’s books had been removed years ago.
Only one remained.
An old church hymnal.
Its spine was faded blue.
Thomas opened it.
Hymn 341.
Nothing.
Until he turned to the back cover.
Folded inside was another sheet of paper.
This one was newer than the others.
The date at the top read:
Four years ago.
Exactly when I sold the Ridgeway house.
Linda unfolded it carefully.
It wasn’t written by Harold.
It was typed.
At the bottom was only one handwritten sentence.
Harold was right. They’re starting again.
No signature.
No name.
Only a postscript.
If anything happens to me, trust the woman in the green scarf. She doesn’t know she’s protecting you.
Janice frowned.
“The woman in the green scarf?”
“I don’t know anyone like that,” I said.
Paula’s eyes suddenly widened.
“I do.”
Everyone looked at her.
“The courthouse.”
“What courthouse?”
“The day Mom signed the sale papers.”
“There was a woman sitting in the hallway.”
“Green scarf.”
“She kept trying to tell us something.”
“What did she say?” Linda asked.
Paula closed her eyes, forcing herself to remember.
“She stood up when we walked past.”
“She looked at Mom…”
“…and said…”
‘Read the last page before you sign.’
The room became perfectly still.
My breath caught.
“I remember her.”
“I thought she was confused.”
Paula slowly shook her head.
“No.”
“Before we reached the conference room…”
“…someone escorted her out of the building.”
Linda’s face hardened.
“Find her.”
The sheriff nodded immediately.
“We’ll search every courthouse visitor log from that day.”
Just then, his phone rang.
He answered without taking his eyes off us.
“This is Sheriff Collins.”
He listened for only a few seconds.
Then his expression changed.
“What?”
The room waited.
Finally, he lowered the phone.
“We found the woman in the green scarf.”
Relief washed over me.
“Is she alive?”
The sheriff hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
He looked directly at me.
“She isn’t a stranger.”
My heart began to pound.
“Who is she?”
He answered quietly.
“Marguerite…”
“She’s your younger sister.”
The room fell into stunned silence.
I stared at him.
“I don’t have a younger sister.”
The sheriff swallowed.
“According to the birth records we just uncovered…”
“…you did.”
