"Not directly."
Claire noticed the qualification.
"Marcus."
He looked down.
"Someone broke into our garage about a month after Thomas died. They took a box of photographs and maintenance records Adrian had collected."
Claire felt a chill.
"Did you report it?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"Nothing came of it."
"Why didn't you tell me yesterday?"
"Because I didn't know how much you wanted to hear."
Claire stared at him.
"My husband is dead. My son is asking questions I can't answer. Don't decide what I can handle."
Marcus accepted the rebuke.
"You're right."
He opened the notebook again.
"Adrian believed someone had ignored warnings about the bridge's condition. He thought the road should have been closed days earlier."
"Was it?"
"The county had announced repairs, but the closure was delayed. A temporary warning sign was supposed to be installed."
"What happened?"
"It wasn't there."
Claire leaned forward.
"Who was responsible?"
"A private contractor called North County Infrastructure."
"Does it still exist?"
"Not under that name."
Marcus paused.
"The owner was a man named Malcolm Voss."
Claire wrote the name on a notepad.
"Where is he now?"
"Retired, as far as I know."
"And Eleanor?"
Marcus frowned.
"What about Eleanor?"
Claire showed him the faint writing beneath the motorcycle sketch.
He read it twice.
Then sat back.
"I haven't heard that name in years."
"You know her?"
"Maybe. There was a woman named Eleanor Price who worked in the county records office."
"Was she involved in the investigation?"
"She helped Adrian obtain copies of inspection reports."
Claire felt her pulse quicken.
"Is she still alive?"
"I don't know."
"Then we find out."
Marcus watched her.
"Claire, before we do anything, you need to understand something."
"What?"
"Adrian spent months chasing answers. It changed him. He became suspicious of people who were probably innocent. He stopped sleeping. He wanted somebody to blame."
Claire glanced toward Oliver.
Marcus continued.
"I don't want you going through the same thing."
She looked back at him.
"Then help me find facts instead of guesses."
Marcus studied her for several seconds.
Finally, he nodded.
"All right."
They began with the public records available online.
Claire searched archived local newspapers while Marcus called an old friend who still lived near Silver Creek.
By noon, they had confirmed that Eleanor Price had retired from county employment eight years earlier.
She had moved to a small town called Ashford.
Her last publicly listed address was beside a former railway depot.
Claire stared at the screen.
"A railway depot."
Marcus leaned closer.
"That can't be coincidence."
She remembered Adrian's circled train timetable.
"Maybe he found her."
"Maybe."
"Then why did Oliver say they waited for someone who never came?"
Marcus looked uneasy.
"There's one way to find out."
Claire checked the distance.
Ashford was almost three hours away.
She could not simply leave her son with a neighbor without explaining where she was going.
And she did not want to involve Oliver in a mystery that might bring him more grief.
But when she told him she needed to visit an old friend of his father, he insisted on coming.
"Was the friend a motorcycle man too?"
"Not exactly," Claire answered.
"Did Dad like her?"
"I think so."
Oliver considered this.
"Then I want to meet her."
Claire looked toward Marcus.
He gave a small shrug.
"Your call."
They left shortly after lunch in Claire's aging station wagon.
Marcus followed on his Harley.
The road toward Ashford wound through low hills and fields already turning golden beneath the summer heat.
Oliver watched the motorcycle through the rear window.
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think Dad would be happy that we found his friend?"
Claire tightened her grip on the steering wheel.
"I think he'd be glad we're trying to understand him."
Oliver was quiet for a while.
Then he asked, "Do people stop being our family when they die?"
Claire felt her throat tighten.
"No, sweetheart."
"Then Dad's still our family?"
"Always."
Oliver smiled faintly.
"Good."
They reached Ashford at 4:38 p.m.
The old railway depot stood near the center of town.
Its redbrick walls had faded, and the tracks beside it were overgrown with weeds.
Across the street was a narrow white house with blue shutters.
A woman sat on the porch beneath a striped umbrella.
She appeared to be in her late seventies.
Her hair was pinned into a loose bun.
A wooden cane rested beside her chair.
Marcus parked his Harley near the curb.
Claire stepped out of the station wagon.
The woman looked up.
For several moments, nobody spoke.
Then the elderly woman saw Marcus.
Her face changed.
"Marcus Reed."
Marcus removed his sunglasses.
"Eleanor."
She slowly stood.
"I was wondering whether you'd ever come."
Claire felt her heartbeat quicken.
"You knew we were coming?"
Eleanor looked toward Oliver.
Her expression softened.
"Oh, my."
She descended the porch steps carefully.
The boy stood beside Claire.
Eleanor approached him as if she were seeing someone from a dream.
"You must be Adrian's son."
Oliver nodded.
"How do you know?"
Tears filled the elderly woman's eyes.
"Because your father showed me your picture."
Claire stepped forward.
"When?"
Eleanor's gaze shifted toward her.
"Six weeks before he died."
Claire felt her knees weaken.
"Then he did meet you."
Eleanor nodded.
"Yes."
"But Oliver said you never came to the station."
The elderly woman looked confused.
"Oliver?"
The boy raised his hand.
"That's me."
Eleanor stared at him.
Then she shook her head.
"Oh, sweetheart. Your father wasn't waiting for me that day."
Claire froze.
"Then who was he waiting for?"
Eleanor looked toward Marcus.
Her expression darkened.
"He was waiting for the man who signed the bridge inspection."
Marcus's jaw tightened.
"Malcolm Voss."
Eleanor shook her head.
"No."
She looked directly at Claire.
"His son."
And suddenly, the accident from seventeen years earlier seemed much closer than anyone had believed.
Eleanor Price invited them inside.
Her home smelled of lavender, old books, and freshly baked bread. Shelves filled every available wall, and photographs of grown children and grandchildren crowded the mantelpiece.
Oliver immediately noticed a glass cabinet containing miniature trains.
"Did you make those?"
Eleanor smiled.
"My husband did."
"They're really cool."
"He would've liked hearing that."
She brought a plate of cookies to the dining table.
Claire thanked her, although she doubted she could eat.
Marcus stood near the window.
Eleanor noticed his restlessness.
"You haven't changed much."
Marcus glanced at her.
"That's debatable."
"Still acting as though you can carry everybody's troubles on your shoulders."
He gave a humorless smile.
"Hasn't worked out especially well."
Eleanor sat down.
"Adrian came here in September. He brought his son."
Oliver looked up.
"I remember."
Claire turned toward him.
"You do?"
"She gave me apple juice."
Eleanor smiled.
"And you asked why the trains didn't move anymore."
Oliver grinned.
Claire stared at the woman.
"Why didn't Adrian tell me?"
Eleanor's smile faded.
"He was afraid you'd worry."
"About what?"
"About the investigation."
Marcus stepped closer.
"What did he find?"
Eleanor looked at him.
"Something you tried to find seventeen years ago."
She opened a drawer beside the dining table and removed a thick envelope.
Across the front, in Adrian's handwriting, were the words:
For Claire, if I cannot finish this myself.
Claire reached for it.
Her hands trembled.
"Why didn't you contact me?"
Eleanor looked ashamed.
"Because Adrian asked me to wait until the documents were verified. After he died, I wasn't sure what to do. I was frightened of giving you something incomplete."
Claire struggled to control her voice.