Read Chapter 31: The Missing Piece

The fluorescent light in the interview room hummed like a trapped insect. Detective Barnes slid a photograph across the table—Jemma Croft, twenty-six, honey-blonde hair pulled into a practical ponytail, smiling at some office party Evelyn didn't recognize.

"Your assistant of eighteen months," Barnes said. "She resigned three weeks before Mr. Whitmore's first letter arrived."

Evelyn stared at the image. Jemma had been efficient, quiet, almost invisible. That was why Evelyn had hired her—someone who wouldn't clamor for attention in the chaos of her life. But now she saw something else in that frozen smile. A tightness around the eyes. A performance.

"She told me she was leaving for a position in Edinburgh," Evelyn said. "Family reasons."

"She lied." Barnes tapped the photograph. "We found text messages on Whitmore's phone. He had something on Jemma—a criminal record for prescription fraud she never disclosed when she applied for the position. He threatened to expose her unless she fed him details of your schedule, your security measures, your personal life."

Marcus shifted beside Evelyn, his jaw tight. She felt his hand find hers under the table, a grounding pressure.

"Everything she knew about you," Barnes continued, "your gym sessions, your favorite cafés, the route you took to the theater—Whitmore knew it all before he ever approached you."

Bile rose in Evelyn's throat. She'd trusted Jemma. Confided in her about panic attacks, about sleepless nights. It had all been currency for a blackmailer.

"Where is she now?" Marcus's voice was flat, controlled.

"We've been unable to locate her. She stopped using her phone and credit cards ten days ago. No known associates we can trace. She's essentially vanished."

"Or she's dead," Evelyn whispered.

Barnes didn't contradict her.

The room felt smaller. Evelyn thought of Oliver, the first stalker, still somewhere out there. And now Jemma, an accomplice she'd hugged goodbye, wished well, reimbursed for train fare to Edinburgh.

"I need to find her," Evelyn said.

"Ms. Hart—"

"I know what you're going to say. That it's police work. But she knows things. She worked for me for eighteen months. She might be able to tell you who else was involved, whether Whitmore acted alone." She met Barnes's gaze. "And I need to look her in the eye and ask her why."

Barnes studied her for a long moment. Then he pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "We've been monitoring her mother's phone. She received a call four days ago from an unregistered number. Too short to trace, but our analyst thinks it originated from somewhere in Hackney."

Marcus took the paper. "We'll start there."

"Mr. Cole, I can't have civilians conducting their own investigation—"

"Then come with us. Or don't." Marcus stood, helping Evelyn to her feet. "But we're going."

The drive to Hackney took forty minutes through London's gray afternoon. Marcus drove with focused intensity, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near Evelyn's knee. The contact was steadying.

"Do you think she'll talk to me?" Evelyn asked.

"Only if you're willing to listen."

She turned to watch the buildings slide past. "She ruined months of my life. She made me afraid to leave my own house. And I still want to know why."

"Because if you understand why, you can stop being afraid."

Evelyn looked at him. He didn't look away from the road, but his hand squeezed her knee. "How do you always know the right thing to say?"

"I don't. I just know you."

The women's shelter was an unremarkable Victorian townhouse with a fresh coat of cream paint and a small garden behind an iron gate. A middle-aged woman with kind eyes and sensible shoes met them at the door. Barnes flashed his badge.

"We believe Jemma Croft may be staying here."

The woman—she introduced herself as Margaret—studied Barnes, then Evelyn. Recognition flickered. "You're the actress. The one who's been in the papers."

"There's been a misunderstanding," Evelyn said carefully. "I just need to talk to Jemma. She used to work for me."

Margaret's expression hardened. "She came to us terrified. Said a man was following her. She's been in a bad way."

"I'm not here to hurt her. I promise."

Margaret hesitated, then stepped aside. "She's in the back garden. But I'll be watching through the window."

Jemma sat on a wooden bench, wearing borrowed clothes that didn't quite fit—a cardigan too large, jeans rolled at the cuffs. She looked smaller than Evelyn remembered. Diminished. When she saw Evelyn approaching, her face went pale, and she rose as if to flee.

"Please." Evelyn held up her hands. "I'm not here to scream at you. I just want to understand."

Jemma sank back onto the bench. Her hands twisted in her lap. "I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry."

Evelyn sat beside her, keeping distance. "Why didn't you come to me? I would have helped you."

"He had proof. My record. I filled prescriptions for my mother—she was in terrible pain from her cancer, and the doctors wouldn't give her enough. I lied on my application because I needed the job, and I was ashamed. Whitmore found out. He said he'd destroy me." Jemma's voice cracked. "I thought if I did what he asked, it would be over. But every time I gave him something, he wanted more."

Evelyn felt anger flare, then recede. She looked at Jemma's trembling hands. She thought about the shape of her own guilt—the things she'd done in desperate times, the corners she'd cut to survive.

"My father died when I was twenty," Evelyn said slowly. "I was alone, broke, and terrified someone would find out how lost I was. I would have done terrible things to keep the truth hidden."

Jemma looked up, eyes red. "I never told him anything that could hurt you physically. I told him your favorite coffee order. I told him about the studio you rented for dance practice. I didn't know what he was planning. I swear."

"But you suspected."

A long pause. Jemma nodded.

"What made you leave?"

"The compass." Jemma's voice dropped. "He mentioned he'd found something that belonged to your father. Something he planned to give you. I looked at the photos I'd taken of your office—I shouldn't have kept them—and I saw it. A letter your father wrote you. Whitmore had stolen it from your house years ago, when he worked for your family."

Evelyn went cold. "He was in my house?"

"After your father died. He took some things. The letter mentioned the compass—a gift your father had planned to give you for your birthday. Whitmore was obsessed with the idea of finishing what your father started. He thought if he gave you the compass and the letter, you'd see him as a protector. A father figure."

"That's why the nickname," Evelyn breathed. "He heard my father call me that."

"I knew it wasn't right. But I was already in too deep." Jemma wiped her eyes. "I ran because I knew what he was becoming. I couldn't be part of it anymore."

Evelyn sat in silence. The pieces clicked together. Whitmore had idolized her father, had seen himself as an heir to a relationship that never belonged to him. Every letter, every intrusion, had been a desperate attempt to recreate a bond he'd witnessed but never shared.

Marcus approached, standing a respectful distance away. "Detective Barnes has been trying to get a trace on that phone call you received."

"I was warning Margaret," Jemma said. "I knew Whitmore was getting closer to you. I'd heard him on the phone with someone else. The night he was arrested—he'd been meeting with someone. A man. I don't know his name, but Whitmore called him 'the successor.' He said someone else was ready to take over if he failed."

Evelyn's blood turned to ice. "Oliver."

"I don't know. But there was always someone else. Whitmore was just the start." Jemma looked at her with raw terror in her eyes. "He believed your father's legacy required someone to protect you forever. And if one guard failed, another would rise to replace him."

Marcus's phone buzzed. He checked it, his face darkening.

"What is it?" Evelyn asked.

"The story about us broke. The journalist who was at the gala—his piece is live. He's speculating about my connection to Jennifer Hale." He pocketed the phone. "He's also posted that Whitmore was arrested in connection with a pattern of harassment targeting you and that evidence suggests he acted with at least one accomplice."

"Publicity won't help Oliver stay hidden," Evelyn said.

"No. But it might make him desperate." Marcus looked toward the shelter. "Jemma heard about a successor. That means Oliver knows about Marcus Cole—about you, your team, your movements. He's been watching this entire time."

Evelyn stood, her legs unsteady. She turned back to Jemma, who still sat trembling on the bench.

"Thank you," Evelyn said softly. "For telling me the truth."

Jemma started to cry. Marcus took Evelyn's hand, steadying her as they walked back toward the car. Detective Barnes was on the phone, his expression grim.

"The forensic team finished with Whitmore's laptop," he said, hanging up. "He kept a file on you, Ms. Hart. Dates, locations, photographs he took over the years." He swallowed. "The file is dated over a decade. Whitmore wasn't a stalker who began recently. He'd been watching you since you were a teenager."

Evelyn felt the ground shift beneath her.

The years of her life had never been her own. She had only just begun to understand how many people's eyes had been on her.

"I need to go home," she said quietly.

Marcus didn't answer. He just held the car door open for her, and they drove back toward London, the weight of a decade of surveillance pressing down on both of them. The question no one spoke aloud hung between them:

If Whitmore had been watching for years, who else had been watching with him?