Chapter 6 - THE FEDERAL FILE
Special Agent Aaron Bell did not smile when he introduced himself.
He looked about forty-five, with close-cropped gray hair and the exhausted expression of someone who had stopped trusting easy answers years ago.
Detective Monroe remained by the door.
Elena moved instinctively between the bedroom and the living room, as if her body could become a wall between Camila and every secret entering the apartment.
Bell set a thin black folder on the coffee table.
"Before we begin, I need to know whether your husband has contacted you."
I considered lying.
Then I remembered Camila's photograph.
"Yes."
Monroe's eyes narrowed.
"When?"
"Ten minutes ago."
"From what number?"
I showed them.
Bell photographed the screen.
"What did he say?"
"That he is Santiago Morales."
Bell did not look surprised.
That told me more than his words could have.
"You knew," I said.
"We suspected."
"No."
I pointed at his face.
"That was not a surprised reaction."
Bell sat down.
"The Bureau has an unresolved file connected to Santiago Morales."
"Unresolved for three years?"
"Longer, depending on where you start counting."
"Did the FBI help him steal his brother's identity?"
Bell glanced at Monroe.
"Not officially."
I laughed without humor.
"That sounds like a lawyer wrote it."
"It's accurate."
"Then give me the inaccurate version."
He met my eyes.
"An FBI agent exceeded his authority after the crash."
"Nolan Price."
"Yes."
"He told police to stop asking questions."
"That appears to be true."
"He told Teresa to let Santiago remain Sebastian."
"That is what she claims."
"Do you believe her?"
"I believe parts of it."
"Which parts?"
Bell opened the folder.
Inside was a photograph of Nolan Price.
My heart jumped.
He was the man from Kessler's gas-station photograph.
Older in this image, cleaner, without the baseball cap, but the posture was unmistakable.
"That's him," I said.
Bell looked at me sharply.
"You've seen him?"
"In a traffic camera photograph."
"Where?"
"Kessler."
Monroe exchanged a look with Bell.
"Kessler still has scene material?" she asked.
"His own copies."
Bell exhaled through his nose.
"That man never learned to leave a file alone."
"Maybe that's why I'm finally learning the truth."
Bell accepted the rebuke.
"Price was assigned to a joint financial crimes task force investigating loan fraud, construction kickbacks, and money laundering."
"Victor Salazar."
"Among others."
"Santiago told me Victor is dead."
"He is."
"Then who is threatening us?"
Bell did not answer immediately.
"Victor wasn't the top."
I felt my stomach sink.
"Of course he wasn't."
Bell removed another page.
It contained names I did not recognize, company names, arrows, and account numbers.
"The network moved money through dealerships, renovation companies, shell lenders, and real estate projects."
"Sebastian's company was one of them."
"Yes."
"Did he know?"
"Not at first."
"And Santiago?"
"He noticed irregular vehicle loans."
Bell folded his hands.
"He contacted federal authorities after discovering applications created under identities of people who had never entered the dealership."
"Why didn't he tell me?"
"Witnesses are often instructed not to discuss active investigations."
"He was my husband."
"I understand."
"No, you don't."
Bell did not argue.
"What happened with Price?"
"We don't know everything."
I almost screamed.
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because it's true."
He leaned forward.
"Price began making decisions outside normal channels."
"Like faking a death."
"Like allowing a compromised identification to stand temporarily."
"That is a very polished way to say faking a death."
"Yes."
At least he did not insult me by denying it.
"Why?"
"Price believed someone inside law enforcement was leaking witness information."
The room went still.
"Inside the FBI?"
"Possibly federal, possibly local, possibly both."
"And he thought calling Santiago dead would protect him."
"That seems to have been his logic."
"Seems?"
"Price disappeared before he could be formally interviewed."
"Disappeared."
"He stopped reporting for work, drained a personal account, and abandoned his apartment."
"No body?"
"No."
"So he could still be alive."
"Yes."
I thought about Santiago saying the first photograph used Price's language.
"Could he have sent something to Santiago recently?"
Bell's expression sharpened.
"What?"
I told him about the photograph sent before the wedding.
Dead men shouldn't get married.
Bell stood abruptly.
"Do you have it?"
"Santiago does, according to Teresa."
"Did he say anything else about it?"
"He said he thought Price might be warning him."
Bell began typing on his phone.
"Why does that phrase matter?"
He looked up.
"During the investigation, Price used dead men as shorthand for protected witnesses whose identities had been scrubbed from active communication."
My skin prickled.
"So Santiago was right."
"Maybe."
I glared at him.
"I hate that word."
"You'll hate certainty more if it's wrong."
Monroe almost smiled.
I did not.
Bell made a call to someone and stepped into the hallway.
Monroe sat beside me.
"How are you holding up?"
"Badly."
"Good answer."
I looked toward the bedroom.
"What am I supposed to tell my daughter?"
"Not everything tonight."
"She thinks her uncle became her father."
"And the truth is?"
My throat tightened.
"Her father became her uncle and then became her father again."
Monroe rubbed her forehead.
"Yeah."
"Exactly."
Bell returned.
"We located the truck."
I stood.
"Where?"
"Abandoned near Lockhart."
"Blood?"
"Unknown."
"Santiago?"
"No sign yet."
"Can I go?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because whoever entered your house knows where you live and where your daughter goes to school."
"I'm not staying here doing nothing."
Bell's tone hardened.
"You're not the investigator."
"I'm the person everyone lied to."
"That doesn't make you bulletproof."
The room went silent.
He softened slightly.
"We are trying to keep you and your child alive."
I looked at him.
"That's what Santiago said."
Bell understood the insult.
"Then maybe both of us are right about one thing."
I sat down again.
"What do you need from me?"
"Everything Santiago told you."
I repeated the call word for word as best I could.
When I mentioned that he had packed an escape bag before the wedding, Bell wrote something down.
"He expected contact," he said.
"Yes."
"Did he mention a place?"
"Only south of town."
"Any names besides Price and Victor?"
"No."
"Any old habits?"
"What does that mean?"
"Places he would go when frightened or under pressure."
I thought about Santiago before 2019.
He hated hotels.
He loved driving.
When we argued, he often went to the same twenty-four-hour diner near San Marcos and sat with coffee until he calmed down.
I nearly told Bell.
Then I stopped.
I did not know whether the leak was still inside law enforcement.
Bell had just told me there might have been one.
"Nothing comes to mind," I said.
Monroe watched me carefully.
I could not tell whether she believed me.
After they left, Elena locked the door.
"You lied to the FBI."
"I withheld a diner."
"That's called lying when federal agents ask."
"He said someone inside law enforcement leaked information."
"Three years ago."
"Do you know when it stopped?"
She did not answer.
I picked up my keys.
"You're not going anywhere."
"Yes, I am."
"Mariana."
"If Santiago is at that diner, I need to see him before the FBI does."
"Why?"
"Because I want the truth before another institution decides which parts I'm allowed to know."
Elena crossed her arms.
"And Camila?"
That stopped me.
I looked toward the bedroom.
"You stay with her."
"No."
"Elena."
"I am not helping you drive into a possible ambush."
"Then come with me."
She stared at me for five seconds.
"I hate you."
"Get your coat."
We told Camila we were going to pick up medicine and left her with Elena's neighbor, Mrs. Kim, a retired nurse who had known us for years.
I hated the lie.
I used it anyway.
The diner sat off Interstate 35 under a buzzing red sign.
At nearly midnight, only six cars were in the parking lot.
Santiago's truck was not one of them.
We parked across the street.
"If he's not there in ten minutes, we leave," Elena said.
"Fine."
"And if anything feels wrong, we call Monroe."
"Fine."
"And you stop saying fine when you don't mean it."
"Fine."
She glared at me.
Then a dark sedan pulled into the diner lot.
A man got out.
Tall.
Baseball cap.
Dark jacket.
My breath stopped.
It was not Santiago.
But I recognized the posture from the gas-station photograph.
Nolan Price.
"That's him," I whispered.
"Who?"
"Price."
Elena grabbed my arm.
"The missing FBI agent?"
"Yes."
He entered the diner.
I reached for the door handle.
Elena pulled me back.
"Absolutely not."
"He may know where Santiago is."
"He may also be the reason Santiago is missing."
I stared through the windshield.
Two minutes later, another car entered the lot.
This one I knew.
Teresa's blue Honda.
She parked beside Price's sedan.
My mouth went dry.
"What is she doing here?" Elena whispered.
Teresa stepped out.
Price came back through the diner's front door before she reached it.
They met beneath the red neon sign.
Even from across the street, their familiarity was obvious.
They did not introduce themselves.
They did not hesitate.
Teresa handed Price a large brown envelope.
He opened it, looked inside, and said something that made her turn away.
Then he touched her shoulder.
Not like a stranger.
Like a man who had comforted her before.
Elena looked at me.
"Your mother-in-law knows the missing federal agent."
I could barely speak.
"She told me she hadn't seen him since the crash."
Price removed something from the envelope.
A photograph.
He held it beneath the parking lot light.
I could not see the image.
Then Teresa looked directly across the road.
Directly at my car.
Her face changed.
She saw me.
Price followed her gaze.
For one terrifying second, the missing FBI agent and I stared at each other through two panes of glass and four lanes of empty road.
Then he reached inside his jacket.
Elena screamed, "Drive."
I hit the gas.
As we tore away from the curb, my phone rang.
Teresa.
I ignored it.
It rang again.
Then a text appeared.
MARIANA, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND.
A second text followed.
May you like
NOLAN IS THE ONLY REASON SANTIAGO IS STILL ALIVE.
