The Last Toast Before Departure

At 11:47 p.m., the Marigold was still sitting on Track Nineteen.

The rain had eased, leaving the platform slick and shining beneath the station lights. Police officers moved between the carriages while our guests were escorted into the terminal for statements.

The musicians had gone home.

The champagne remained untouched.

And the train I had spent three years building had become a crime scene.

I stood beside the observation car window, reading the message again.

*The box is not buried.*

Nia sat opposite me, holding Simone's letter in both hands.

“Do you think Mom hid it somewhere else?”” she asked.

“Perhaps.””

“Then why write under the old bridge?””

“Because she wanted someone to look there.””

“Or because she wanted someone to think it was there.””

I looked at my daughter.

She had inherited Simone's ability to see the second possibility when everyone else was celebrating the first.

“You may be right.””

She glanced at the signet ring on the table.

“Why did Camille have Grandpa's ring?””

“I don't know.””

“Did she ever tell you where she got it?””

“No.””

“Did you ask?””

I thought about it.

Once, perhaps.

Camille had been wearing the ring on a chain beneath her blouse during a weekend trip. When I asked about it, she told me it was an old family heirloom she had purchased at an estate sale.

I had assumed she meant someone else's family.

I hadn't asked which one.

“No,” I admitted.

Nia gave a small, humorless laugh.

“That's how she does it.””

“How?””

“She gives you an answer that sounds reasonable enough that you don't want to be rude by asking another question.””

I looked at the ring.

My father had worn it every day of his adult life. After his funeral, I searched the house for it because I wanted to give it to Nia when she turned eighteen.

Adrian told me it had probably been lost during the estate sale.

I had believed him.

“I'm going to ask Adrian about it,” I said.

Nia shook her head.

“He won't tell you the truth just because you ask nicely.””

“Then I'll ask differently.””

Before she could respond, Detective Reed entered the observation car.

“We've located Dr. Foster.””

I stood so quickly that the chair scraped backward.

“Where is she?””

“At a hospital in downtown Chicago. A patrol officer found her near the parking garage entrance. She's conscious, but she has a head injury.””

“Is she safe?””

“She is now. We've assigned an officer to remain with her.””

I exhaled slowly.

“Can I speak with her?””

“Not tonight. The doctors are evaluating her. But she asked me to give you something.””

He placed a sealed evidence envelope on the table.

Inside was a small flash drive.

“Where did she get this?””

“She said she kept a copy of the original laboratory records in a secure location. This was the only copy she had with her tonight.””

“Does it contain the toxicology report?””

“Possibly. Our technical team will examine it.””

I looked at the envelope.

“Detective, if someone has spent five years hiding evidence about my wife's death, I don't want to wait another five years to learn what happened.””

“I understand.””

“Then let me help.””

He studied me.

“Mr. Mercer, your involvement could complicate the investigation. You have a personal relationship with several people we're questioning.””

“They're my family.””

“That's precisely the problem.””

I couldn't argue with that.

Reed took a breath.

“I can tell you this much. The laboratory records were generated under a case number associated with Simone's death. The file was accessed twice after the investigation closed. Once by a hospital administrator, and once through an external records request.””

“Who made the external request?””

“We're working on that.””

“Was it Adrian?””

“We don't know yet.””

“Camille?””

“Also unknown.””

I looked toward the window.

The station clock read 11:52.

Five years of unanswered questions had brought us to a flash drive, a brass key, and a handwritten note.

It felt impossibly small.

“Detective,” I said, “I want to go to Milwaukee.””

He frowned.

“Tonight?””

“Now.””

“Why?””

“Because Simone left something beneath an old railway bridge, and someone is trying to stop us from finding it.””

He glanced at Nia.

“Does your daughter need to accompany you?””

“No,” I said immediately.

“Yes,” Nia said at the same time.

We looked at each other.

She folded her arms.

“I'm the only person who knows exactly what Odessa told me.””

“You're sixteen.””

“And Mom was my mother.””

The words stopped me.

Detective Reed watched us in silence.

I lowered my voice.

“Nia, I won't put you in danger.””

“You don't get to decide that by keeping me in the dark.””

“I am trying to protect you.””

“I know. That's what everyone says when they want me to stop asking questions.””

She stood.

“I don't want to be protected from the truth, Dad. I want to be protected while we find it.””

I looked at her for a long moment.

Then I turned to Reed.

“Can we arrange a police escort?””

He sighed.

“If we're going, we're doing it properly. Two officers, no unscheduled stops, and your daughter stays with us at all times.””

“Agreed.””

Nia reached for her jacket.

As she did, her phone vibrated.

She looked at the screen.

Her face went pale.

“What is it?”” I asked.

She turned the phone toward me.

A text message from an unknown number.

If you go to the bridge, you'll find what your mother left.

A second message appeared.

But you won't like who left it there.

We left Chicago just after midnight.

A police vehicle led the way, followed by the car Lenora had arranged through the station's transport office. I sat in the back beside Nia, watching the city lights thin into long ribbons across the wet highway.

Neither of us spoke for the first twenty minutes.

Then Nia rested her head against the window.

“Dad?””

“Yes?””

“Do you remember the night Mom died?””

Every muscle in my body tightened.

“Of course.””

“What do you remember?””

I looked at her.

“Why are you asking?””

“Because I remember some things, and I don't know whether they're real.””

I waited.

She took a slow breath.

“Mom called me from the hospital before she died. I was staying with Grandma. She said she loved me and that she would be home soon.””

I had never heard this before.

“She called you?””

Nia nodded.

“I thought you knew.””

“I didn't.””

Her face changed.

“Maybe Grandma didn't tell you.””

I stared at the passing headlights.

“What else did she say?””

“She told me to remember the river. I thought she meant the place where we used to have picnics.””

My throat tightened.

“Did she say anything about the accident?””

“No. She sounded tired. But she didn't sound scared until someone came into the room.””

I turned toward her.

“What happened?””

“She stopped talking. Then I heard a man's voice. He said, 'You shouldn't have done that.''”

The car seemed suddenly too small.

“Did you recognize him?””

“No.””

“Did your mother answer?””

“She said, 'I had no choice.'' Then the call ended.””

I stared at my daughter.

“Why didn't you tell me this before?””

Nia looked down.

“Because you cried when I asked about her last phone call. You said we needed to remember her the way she was before the accident.””

I closed my eyes.

I remembered that conversation.

Nia had been ten. She stood in the kitchen holding a drawing she had made of Simone, with yellow flowers around the edges.

I had been sorting through hospital bills and insurance paperwork.

I had told her we could talk later.

Later had become five years.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

She leaned against the window again.

“I don't think the man on the phone killed Mom.””

“Why not?””

“Because she didn't sound surprised to hear him.””

I stared at her.

“What do you mean?””

“She sounded angry. Like she'd been waiting for him to come back.””

I thought about the letters.

The missing toxicology panel.

The altered documents.

The note about a blue box.

And Simone's final words to our daughter.

Remember the river.

I reached for Nia's hand.

This time, she held mine.

We arrived in Milwaukee at 2:16 a.m.

The old railway bridge stood beyond an industrial district near the river, its steel beams dark against the cloudy sky. The line had been abandoned for years, its tracks overgrown with weeds and its maintenance road blocked by a rusted gate.

The police vehicle stopped beside the entrance.

An officer stepped out and shone a flashlight toward the bridge.

“Stay behind us,” Detective Reed instructed.

Nia nodded.

I followed the officers through the gate.

The air smelled of wet earth, rust, and river water. Somewhere in the darkness, a train horn sounded from an active line miles away.

The old bridge groaned softly in the wind.

I had come here once with Simone, years before Nia was born. We had walked along the riverbank while she talked about restoring the overnight passenger routes.

She had pointed toward the abandoned line and told me that railways remembered things people tried to forget.

At the time, I thought she was being poetic.

Now I wondered whether she had been warning me.

“Where exactly are we looking?”” Reed asked.

I took out the photograph.

“Under the old bridge.””

We searched the riverbank with flashlights, moving between concrete supports and tangled weeds.

Nothing.

No blue box.

No buried container.

No obvious hiding place.

After twenty minutes, one of the officers called out.

“Detective!””

We hurried toward him.

He stood beside a maintenance hatch built into the concrete foundation. The metal cover had been painted over several times, but one corner was bent upward.

Reed crouched.

“Is this it?””

I knelt beside him and examined the hatch.

A brass lock hung from the latch.

My hand trembled as I pulled the key from my pocket.

The key Odessa had given me.

It slid into the lock.

Turned.

Clicked.

The hatch opened with a long metallic groan.

Inside was a narrow cavity containing a small blue metal box.

I lifted it carefully.

The paint had peeled along the edges, revealing rust beneath. A thin chain was wrapped around the lid, and a folded strip of paper had been tucked beneath the clasp.

I unfolded the paper.

Simone's handwriting.

Damon, if you have found this, then I was right to be afraid.

I looked at Nia.

She had both hands pressed against her mouth.

I opened the box.

Inside lay a stack of letters, a small cassette recorder, three photographs, and a sealed envelope bearing my name.

The letters were arranged by date.

The earliest was five months before Simone died.

The latest was dated the evening before the crash.

Detective Reed photographed each item before allowing me to handle the envelope.

I opened it carefully.

The first page contained a list of payments, dates, and account numbers.

The second contained a copy of a laboratory request.

The third was a handwritten statement.

I began to read.

I, Simone Mercer, am writing this because I believe someone inside my family is using my name to authorize payments I never approved.

I confronted Adrian on Monday. He told me I was misunderstanding the records.

I confronted Camille on Tuesday. She told me I should stop interfering in matters I didn't understand.

On Wednesday, I found evidence that someone had accessed my medical file.

My hands grew cold.

I continued.

I don't know whether Adrian is acting alone. I don't know whether Camille understands what he has done. But I know one thing: they are both afraid of what I have found.

The statement ended with a date.

The day Simone died.

I looked at the photographs.

The first showed Adrian standing outside a hospital entrance.

The second showed Camille speaking to a man beside a black sedan.

The third showed my father.

I stared at it, unable to understand what I was seeing.

My father had died twelve years earlier.

Yet the photograph was dated three weeks before Simone's accident.

He stood beside the old railway bridge, wearing his dark overcoat and the signet ring that Camille now possessed.

Behind him, partially hidden by a steel support, was a second person.

A woman.