Burke lifted the warrant. “You were notified. Step aside.”
Keller backed away.
A woman appeared behind him, toddler on her hip. Melissa Keller.
“Jonathan,” she said quietly. “What did you do?”
Keller didn’t answer. His gaze slid past the child.
Melissa went still.
Scout stepped forward, voice even. “Ma’am, can you take your son into the living room, please?”
She tightened her hold. “Do you think I’m stupid?” she whispered. “I can see it all over your face.”
Keller sagged against the console table, hands braced hard against the wood. “Melissa—please—they’re blowing this out of proportion?—”
A tear slipped free. “I let you swear to me,” she said. “I let myself believe you.”
Melissa turned away.
The Search
Teams moved through the house with practiced efficiency—techs to the basement, Denton to the master bedroom, Burke clearing the study. Scout took the narrow stairs to the attic.
Dust. Boxes. Old textbooks. Baby gear shoved into corners.
He pulled the chain. The bulb flickered on.
A banker’s box sat half-crushed beneath another. No label.
Scout tugged it free.
Inside:
• A folded photo of Lauren Pierce—creased.
• A packet of printed emails, Lauren’s replies missing.
• A slim maroon leather journal, stitched in faint white thread.
Scout stopped.
Emily Wade’s voice surfaced:
Maroon leather. White stitching. My name in the front.
He lifted it carefully.
Her name was written inside the cover.
Not proof of a room.
Proof of fixation. Not design.
“Burke,” Scout called down the stairs. “You’ll want to see this.”
Living Room
