Chapter 9: Opening the Files (Lauren POV)

"Alright, I'm heading out." Tom appeared in the living room doorway, keys jingling in his hand. He'd changed from his work clothes into jeans and a Cubs t-shirt. "Mike's been complaining that I never come out anymore since the girls started school."

Sarah looked up from her laptop where she'd been responding to client emails. "Tell Mike I said hi. And don't let him talk you into staying out too late, you have that presentation tomorrow."

"Yes, dear." Tom leaned down to kiss her forehead. "Lauren, you good here?"

"I'm fine. Go have fun."

"We'll probably grab dinner somewhere, so don't wait up," he said to Sarah, then headed for the door.

The house felt different after Tom left. Quieter, but not in a peaceful way. More like the calm before a storm.

Sarah closed her laptop and stretched. "I should head out soon to get the girls. Emma has soccer practice at four, and Sophie has that playdate with Madison."

I nodded from my spot on the couch, where I'd been staring at the same page of a magazine for the past hour. My mind kept circling back to Alex's phone call, to the urgency in his voice, to the countdown that seemed to tick louder with each passing hour.

"Sarah?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you still have those case files I brought with me last night?"

She paused in gathering her things. "They're in the guest room closet. Why?"

"I think I need to look at them again."

"Lauren..."

"I know what you're going to say. But sitting here trying to pretend I'm a normal person isn't working. My brain won't shut off."

Sarah sat back down, studying my face. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that maybe if I go through the Valdez case one more time, I'll see something I missed. Something that explains what happened in that evidence room."

"Or you'll obsess over details that don't matter and drive yourself crazy."

"I'm already driving myself crazy doing nothing."

Sarah was quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Okay. But I want you to promise me something."

"What?"

"If you start spiraling, if you feel yourself getting too deep into the rabbit hole, you'll stop. You'll call me, or Tom, or even Dr. Morrison if you need to."

Dr. Morrison was Sarah's therapist, someone she'd seen briefly after the twins were born and postpartum depression hit harder than expected. Sarah had mentioned her name a few times since I'd been staying here.

"I promise."

"I mean it, Lauren. I've seen you disappear into cases before, but this time feels different. This time you're already on the edge."

"I know. I'll be careful."

Sarah gathered her purse and keys. "The files are in the closet, top shelf. I'll be back by six-thirty with the girls."

After she left, the house settled into complete silence. No morning talk shows, no sound of Sarah typing, no background noise of normal life. Just me and the ticking clock.

I climbed the stairs to the guest room and found the accordion file folder on the closet's top shelf, exactly where Sarah had said it would be. It was heavier than I remembered, stuffed with five years' worth of investigation materials.

I carried it downstairs and spread everything out on Sarah's dining room table. Crime scene photos, witness statements, autopsy reports, evidence logs, surveillance footage stills. The entire Marcus Valdez investigation laid out in chronological order.

The victim was Amanda, twenty-three years old, graduate student at Northwestern studying biochemistry. Found dead in her Lincoln Park apartment on a Tuesday morning in March, five years ago. Her roommate discovered the body when Amanda didn't show up for their morning run.

I picked up the crime scene photos, forcing myself to look objectively at images I'd memorized years ago. Amanda lying on her living room floor, blood pooled around her head from blunt force trauma. Signs of a struggle, overturned furniture, broken lamp, defensive wounds on her hands and arms.

The murder weapon was a bronze bookend shaped like a horse, part of a set that belonged to Amanda. Her blood, her fingerprints, and crucially, Marcus Valdez's fingerprints on the base where he'd gripped it.

Valdez had been Amanda's ex-boyfriend. They'd dated for eight months before she broke up with him, citing his controlling behavior and explosive temper. Friends said he'd been harassing her for weeks before her death, showing up at her work, calling constantly, following her around campus.

The case should have been straightforward. Domestic violence escalating to murder, perpetrator leaving clear evidence at the scene. But Valdez had money, connections, and a legal team that specialized in creating reasonable doubt.

I spread out the witness statements, reading through them again. Amanda's roommate, Jessica Park, who found the body and immediately called 911. The neighbor who heard shouting around 10 PM the night before. The campus security guard who saw Valdez's car in the parking lot near Amanda's building.

Then there were the character witnesses Valdez's lawyers had produced. Former girlfriends who swore he'd never been violent. Colleagues who described him as mild-mannered and professional. His alibi witness, a bartender who claimed Valdez had been at Murphy's Pub until 2 AM the night of the murder.

I'd spent months trying to crack that alibi. The bartender, Danny Sullivan, stuck to his story despite multiple interviews. Security footage from the pub was mysteriously corrupted. Credit card records showed Valdez had paid his tab at 1:47 AM, but that still left a window where he could have driven to Amanda's apartment.

My phone buzzed. Text message.

Still thinking about our conversation. Really need to talk to you.

Alex. I set the phone aside and went back to the files.

The evidence that had gone missing, the weapon, the bronze bookend, Amanda's blood-stained jacket that Valdez had grabbed during the struggle, fibers from his car that had been found under her fingernails. All of it disappeared from that locked evidence room while I watched a shadow figure steal it.

I pulled out the evidence log, tracing my finger down the list of items that had been catalogued and stored. Item #47: Bronze horse bookend, victim's blood and suspect's prints. Item #52: Victim's denim jacket, torn sleeve with blood spatter. Item #61: Fiber samples from suspect's vehicle floor mats.

Everything that directly linked Valdez to Amanda's death.

My phone rang. Not a text this time—an actual call. Alex's name on the screen.

I almost didn't answer. But something about the persistence, the urgency in his previous messages, made me pick up.

"Hello, Alex."

"Lauren. I've been trying to reach you all day."

"I'm here. What do you need?"

"I just heard from the DA's office. About the Valdez case."

My stomach dropped. "What about it?"

"They're moving forward with the trial. Next Tuesday."

"What? Without the evidence?"

"They think they have enough. The witness testimony, the circumstantial evidence, the original documentation of the physical evidence before it went missing."

I stood up from the table, pacing to the window. "That's not enough, Alex. Valdez's lawyers will tear apart every witness, create doubt about everything."

"I know. But the DA doesn't want to drop the charges entirely. Too much public pressure."

"So they're going to trial with a case they can't win."

"Looks like it."

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window. Five years of work, five years of fighting for Amanda's justice, and it was all falling apart.

"Lauren, are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay. This is a disaster."

"Maybe not. Maybe there's still a chance..."

"A chance of what? The jury convicting based on testimony alone? Valdez has the best defense money can buy. Without that physical evidence, they'll create reasonable doubt about everything."

Through the window, I could see Sarah's minivan pulling into the driveway. She was back with the girls.

"Lauren, I want to help. Maybe we can still find something, some angle the prosecution missed."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. But I'm not giving up on this case, and you shouldn't either."

The front door opened and I heard Emma's voice: "Mom, can we have ice cream before dinner?"

"We'll see, baby. Go wash your hands."

Footsteps on the stairs, then Sarah appeared in the dining room doorway. She took in the files spread across her table, my phone pressed to my ear, the tense expression on my face.

"Who are you talking to?" she asked quietly.

I covered the phone's mouthpiece. "Alex. He says the Valdez trial is starting Tuesday."

Sarah's expression grew concerned. She walked closer, studying the crime scene photos spread across her table.

"Lauren?" Alex's voice came through the phone. "Are you still there?"

"I'm here."

"Look, I know this is hard to hear. But maybe the prosecution is right. Maybe they do have enough without the physical evidence."

"You don't believe that any more than I do."

"Maybe not. But giving up isn't going to help Amanda's family."

I looked down at Amanda's student ID photo, at the bright smile that had been extinguished too soon.

"I have to go, Alex."

"Wait. Lauren, can we meet later? Maybe go through the case together, see if there's something we missed?"

Sarah was shaking her head, pointing to her watch. Six-thirty. Family dinner time in normal households.

"I can't tonight."

"Tomorrow then?"

"I don't know. I need to think."

"Don't think too long. We only have six days."

I hung up and sank back into the chair, staring at the files scattered across Sarah's dining room table.

"Bad news?" Sarah asked.

"The worst. They're proceeding to trial without the evidence. Next Tuesday."

Sarah sat down across from me, carefully moving aside some of the witness statements. "What does that mean?"

"It means Marcus Valdez is probably going to walk free. It means five years of work was for nothing. It means Amanda's killer gets away with murder."

"Lauren..."

"It means maybe I really am losing my mind, because none of this makes sense anymore."

Sarah reached across the table and took my hand. "Hey. Look at me."

I met her eyes, seeing the same steady concern I'd been relying on for days.

"You're not losing your mind. Something happened in that evidence room, something that doesn't fit into normal explanations. But that doesn't make you crazy."

"Then what does it make me?"

"Someone who sees things other people can't see. Someone who's been carrying the weight of this case for five years. Someone who needs to decide whether she's going to let them win."

I squeezed her hand, drawing strength from the contact. Outside, I could hear Emma and Sophie playing in the backyard, their laughter mixing with the evening air.

Normal life continuing around the edges of my chaos.

"The trial starts Tuesday," I said.

"Then you have six days to figure out what really happened."

"And if I can't?"

"Then you'll have done everything you could. And sometimes that has to be enough."

I knew it wouldn't be enough.

Not for her family. Not for justice. And not for me.