The Date

Emma had almost overlooked the date. It sat in the upper-right corner of the page, smaller than the rest of the writing.

14 October 2026.

Yesterday.

She checked it twice, though she knew perfectly well that ink could not establish when a letter had been written. Still, the date made the message feel less like a relic from an old investigation and more like a deliberate interruption of her present life.

Emma searched for Claire Morrison online. The results were painfully familiar: appeals for information, reports from the first weeks after the disappearance and a short documentary produced ten years later. Then she found her own article.

Missing Teacher May Have Left Village After Personal Dispute.

She winced. The headline was worse than she remembered. A source had claimed that Claire was unhappy and considering a fresh start. The source had offered no convincing evidence, and Emma had not challenged the account firmly enough. At twenty-one, she had been eager to get a story into print. At thirty-six, she knew how much harm a suggestive headline could do.

She closed the browser tab and opened the notebook she had kept from that assignment. After several minutes of searching, she found the entry.

18 September 2011. C. Morrison. Café, Glenarraidh. Education foundation. Hesitant when asked about directors. “Truth more dangerous than a lie.” Possible disagreement?

A question mark. She had written a question mark and then moved on.

Emma opened the website of the Glenarraidh Education Trust. It was still active. The homepage displayed smiling students, photographs from fundraising dinners and a message from its chair, Malcolm Vale.

She remembered him now: immaculate jacket, expensive watch, and the easy confidence of a man accustomed to being listened to. She had interviewed him twice in 2011.

She downloaded the latest annual report, then searched her email archive for his name. One message, sent shortly after Claire vanished, caught her eye.

We are all deeply concerned about Claire. She was an exceptional young woman, although she had been under considerable personal pressure recently.

Emma read the final phrase again.

Personal pressure.

Was Vale the source behind her article? She could not tell from the email. Her confidential source notes were on an old external drive, not in the folder she had open. She knew where the drive was, but she would need time to retrieve it and check rather than rely on memory.

Her phone vibrated. Sarah Bennett, her editor, had sent a message.

Still awake?

Unfortunately. Why?

Someone rang the office this afternoon. Asked whether you still worked here.

Emma sat straighter.

Did they give a name?

No. They said it was about your old Claire Morrison story.

Emma looked at the letter. The courier had delivered it that afternoon; someone else had contacted her newsroom on the same day. It might be coincidence. She had no evidence the two events were connected.

Another message appeared.

I checked the old article after the call. It's had a few visits today, more than usual. We can't tell who read it. Probably nothing, but I thought you should know.

Emma appreciated Sarah's caution. An unusual number of visits was not proof of surveillance, and the newsroom's statistics could not identify the caller. Nevertheless, the timing unsettled her.

Can we speak tomorrow morning? Emma wrote. I need to check something first.

She opened her notebook to a clean page and wrote three questions.

Who sent the letter?

What happened at the foundation?

Who told me Claire wanted to disappear?

The third question was the one she could begin answering tonight. Somewhere in a drawer was an external drive containing the source notes she had trusted fifteen years earlier.

Emma put down her pen and went to find it.