A Voice in the Crime – Chapter 17
The Woman Who Disappeared
The search for Margaret Chen lasted fourteen hours.
It was exhaustive, methodical, and ultimately futile. Police dogs traced her scent from the boiler room to a drainage tunnel that ran beneath the museum and emptied into the Pellerin River. The tunnel was narrow, dark, and sloped sharply toward the water. By the time the search team reached the river’s edge, the tide had come in and gone out again. Any trace of Margaret Chen—footprints, fibers, DNA—had been washed away.
Detective Rivas stood at the riverbank, her hands on her hips, staring at the gray water as if she could will it to give up its secrets. Felix stood beside her, his jacket pulled tight against the cold afternoon wind.
“She’s gone,” Rivas said. It wasn’t a question.
“She knew what she was doing. Thirty years in security. She planned every detail. The drainage tunnel, the tide schedule, the escape route. She probably had a car waiting on the other side of the river. Or a boat. Or both.”
“She could be anywhere by now.”
“Anywhere,” Felix agreed. “Or nowhere. She might not even have left the city. She might be watching us right now.”
Rivas turned to look at him. “That’s not comforting.”
“I’m not trying to be comforting. I’m trying to be accurate. Margaret Chen spent two decades waiting for the right moment to act. She’s patient. She’s methodical. And she’s not done.”
“What makes you say that?”
Felix thought about the files in the hidden command center. The photographs. The letters. The years of observation. Margaret Chen hadn’t just been waiting for the pendant to be found. She had been building something. A narrative. A story with a specific ending.
“She told me I was the only person who could tell the story the way it deserved,” Felix said. “She didn’t just want the truth to come out. She wanted it to come out a certain way. With a certain voice. My voice.”
“And now that the truth is out?”
“Now she watches. To see if I tell it right.”
Rivas was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, “You’re not a detective, Mr. Greer. You’re not a journalist. You’re not even a witness anymore. You’re a voice actor who got caught up in something much bigger than yourself. My advice? Go home. Record your audiobook. Let the police handle the rest.”
“That’s your advice?”
“That’s my order.” Rivas’s voice was firm but not unkind. “You’ve done enough. More than enough. But now it’s time to step back. Margaret Chen is dangerous. She’s unpredictable. And she’s fixated on you. The safest place for you is far away from this investigation.”
Felix wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her that he couldn’t just walk away, that he was in too deep, that Margaret Chen had chosen him for a reason and he had a responsibility to see this through. But he looked at Rivas’s tired eyes, at the lines of exhaustion etched into her face, and he realized that she wasn’t trying to protect the investigation. She was trying to protect him.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll go home. But I’m not stopping. I’m just… pausing.”
Rivas nodded. “That’s all I ask.”
Felix walked back to his apartment.
The city was different now. The streets were the same—the same cracked sidewalks, the same fire hydrants, the same coffee shops and bookstores and laundromats. But Felix saw them differently. He saw them the way Margaret Chen must have seen them: as stages. As settings. As places where stories unfolded and secrets were kept.
He passed The Last Honest Man. Emmett Park was inside, polishing the espresso machine, his bald head gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Felix thought about going in, about telling Emmett everything that had happened. But he didn’t have the energy. He didn’t have the words.
He kept walking.
His apartment building was quiet. The laundromat below was empty—the owner had closed early, maybe because of the news, maybe because it was Tuesday and business was slow. Felix climbed the stairs, unlocked his door, and stepped inside.
The apartment smelled the same. Lavender softener from downstairs. Old books. The faint ghost of the Thai food he had microwaved two days ago. His recording booth was in the corner, its foam-lined walls waiting for his voice.
He sat on the couch. He didn’t turn on the lights. He didn’t make coffee. He just sat.
His phone buzzed. A text from Priya: Samuel is safe. He’s with the police, giving his statement. They’re not going to charge him—not yet. Too much else going on. How are you?
Felix typed back: Tired. Confused. Relieved. All of the above.
Priya: Davis wants to take us all to dinner tonight. His treat. Says we need to celebrate.
Felix: Celebrate what?
Priya: Being alive. Being free. Finding the truth. Take your pick.
Felix stared at the text. He didn’t feel like celebrating. He felt like sleeping for a week. But he also knew that isolation was dangerous—that sitting alone in his apartment, thinking about Margaret Chen, would drive him slowly insane.
Okay, he typed. Where?
Priya: The Blue Plate. 7:00. Dottie says she’ll keep the pie case open for us.
Felix almost smiled. I’ll be there.
He put down his phone and lay back on the couch. The ceiling was cracked. A water stain in the shape of a cloud spread across the plaster. He had looked at that stain a thousand times, had imagined it as a hundred different things—a map, a face, a Rorschach test for his own anxieties.
Now he saw it as something else. A passage. A tunnel. A way out.
He closed his eyes.
He dreamed of Margaret Chen.
She was standing in the Cobalt Room, her back to him, her silver hair glowing in the sconce light. She was holding the pendant—the real one—and she was talking, but Felix couldn’t hear the words. He walked toward her, reached out to touch her shoulder, and she turned.
Her face was his face.
He woke up gasping.
The apartment was dark. The clock on his phone said 6:15 PM. He had slept for three hours, but he felt no more rested than before. The dream clung to him like a second skin.
He stood up. Splashed water on his face. Changed his shirt. Put on his shoes.
He was not going to let Margaret Chen win. He was not going to hide in his apartment, afraid of shadows and tunnels and women who wore his face in his dreams.
He was going to the Blue Plate. He was going to eat pie. And then he was going to figure out what came next.
The Blue Plate Diner was busier than usual for a Tuesday night. News crews had set up outside, their satellite trucks blocking the street, their reporters clutching microphones and looking for interviews. The theft of the pendant—and the discovery of the real one—had become a national story. The museum was closed indefinitely. Dr. Ashworth had resigned. Harrison Blaine had issued a statement expressing “deep regret” and “full cooperation” with authorities.
And Margaret Chen was the most wanted woman in the state.
Felix slipped through the crowd outside, keeping his head down, his collar up. He didn’t want to be recognized. He didn’t want to be interviewed. He just wanted to sit in a booth with people who understood what he had been through.
Priya and Davis were already there, in the same back booth where Felix had met Priya the day before. Samuel was with them—looking pale and shaken, but alive. And Dottie the waitress was hovering nearby, holding a pot of coffee like a weapon.
“About time,” Dottie said as Felix slid into the booth. “I was about to send a search party.”
“Traffic,” Felix said.
“Traffic my ass. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
“I haven’t.”
“Then drink this.” Dottie poured him a cup of coffee. “And eat something. The pie is fresh. I made it myself.”
Felix looked at the pie case. The lemon meringue slice was still there, still untouched, still ancient. “The same pie?”
“The same pie. It’s a classic.”
Priya laughed—a real laugh, the first Felix had heard from her. “Dottie, that pie has been there since 1997.”
“1998,” Dottie corrected. “The museum opened that year. I made the pie to celebrate. No one ordered it. Now it’s a tradition.”
Felix smiled despite himself. He looked at Samuel. “How are you?”
Samuel shrugged. “I’ve been better. I’ve been worse. The police took my statement. They said they’re not pressing charges—not yet. They’re more interested in finding Margaret Chen than in prosecuting me for stealing a fake pendant.”
“That’s good.”
“It’s something.” Samuel looked at his coffee. “I keep thinking about what she said. About my mother. About waiting for the right moment. Do you think my mother knew? About Margaret’s plan?”
Felix considered the question. “I think your mother knew more than she told anyone. I think she trusted Margaret—maybe more than she should have. But I don’t think she knew that Margaret would kidnap you. That was a desperate act. A last resort.”
“Margaret doesn’t seem like the desperate type.”
“Desperation looks different on different people. For some, it’s loud and messy. For others, it’s quiet and controlled. Margaret Chen spent thirty years being quiet and controlled. But she was desperate. She needed the truth to come out her way. And when it looked like that wasn’t going to happen, she made a choice.”
“A bad choice.”
“A terrible choice.” Felix nodded. “But not an irrational one. She believed she was protecting the story. Protecting your mother’s legacy. Protecting something bigger than herself.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“No. But understanding why someone does something terrible is the first step to making sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Davis Blaine, who had been quiet until now, cleared his throat. “My father is resigning from the board. He’s also selling his house. And his car. And most of his investments. He’s hired a lawyer—a different one, not Bianca Hsu—and he’s going to cooperate with every investigation. He told me he wants to spend the rest of his life making amends.”
“Do you believe him?” Priya asked.
Davis hesitated. “I want to. He’s my father. But he’s also a man who spent thirty years protecting a lie. That doesn’t change overnight.”
“No,” Felix said. “It doesn’t. But it can change. Slowly. Painfully. One step at a time.”
The table was quiet for a moment. Dottie appeared with four plates of pie—not the lemon meringue, but fresh apple, still warm, the crust golden and flaky.
“Eat,” Dottie said. “The world isn’t going to end tonight. And if it does, you should face it on a full stomach.”
Felix took a bite. The pie was good. Really good. The apples were tart and sweet, the crust was buttery, and for a moment—just a moment—he forgot about Margaret Chen and the pendant and the chicken bone and the tunnels beneath the museum.
For a moment, he was just a man eating pie with friends.
Then his phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen. A text message. From an unknown number.
You told the story well. But the story isn’t over. There’s one more chapter. Meet me where we first met. Midnight. Come alone. – M.
Felix’s blood went cold.
“Who is it?” Priya asked.
Felix didn’t answer. He looked at the clock on the wall. 7:45 PM. Four hours and fifteen minutes until midnight.
He looked at his friends. At the pie. At the phone in his hand.
One more chapter, Margaret Chen had written.
Felix pulled out his phone and started a voice memo—quietly, so no one else could hear.
“Chapter Seventeen,” he murmured. “Margaret Chen wants to meet. Where we first met—the museum loading dock. Midnight. She says the story isn’t over. She says there’s one more chapter.”
He looked at the text again. The words seemed to glow on the screen.
“I don’t know if I should go. I don’t know if I can stay away. But I know one thing: Margaret Chen is not done with me. And I’m not done with her.”
“Not yet.”“r be undone.”