Chapter 7: Diner Truths

I called up Dan Morrison, an old college friend who’d gone into forensic document analysis at Quantico. I bribed the night librarian with Dunkin’ coffee and a promise to return the rare books before dawn. I boxed up the diary and overnighted it to his lab. With the right spectrum imaging, he might be able to tease out the words Grant tried so hard to erase.

It would take time. But I couldn’t wait. I needed answers now. So I decided to track down Professor Harold—the only living person who might know what the missing words were.

I found his contact information in an old faculty directory, patched through a half-dozen departments before he finally picked up. At first, he was curt, wanting nothing to do with me. But when I mentioned Grant’s disappearance, he relented and agreed to meet at a diner off Route 1—one of those chrome-and-neon places where the waitresses still call you "hon."

The Formica table was sticky with syrup, and the waitress—name tag said MARGE—poured Harold another refill without asking. Harold looked rough, his eyes rimmed red, fingers wrapped tight around a chipped mug of coffee. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. The rain tapped at the windows, thunder rolling in the distance.

"I never thought it’d get this bad," he muttered, voice raw. "If I’d known Grant would lose it, I’d have burned that report myself."

I leaned in, my words a low plea. "Professor Harold, I need to know. What did the report say? What organ is it?"

Harold stared at his reflection in the coffee for a long moment. Finally, he said, "Listen, kid, you’re not like Grant. After his wife and daughter died in that accident, he changed. Cut himself off, poured himself into his work. That report—well, it was his world. But for you? Trust me. Some things are better left unknown."

I looked him dead in the eye, my own pain sharp and present. "Let me tell you my story. Three years ago, my girlfriend Emily and I were caught in a house fire. She forced the only breathing mask on me and shoved me out. I made it. She didn’t. Or so I thought. When the firefighters went through the wreckage, they didn’t find any remains. Nothing. But I remember—Emily was there. She disappeared. Just like Grant."

Harold’s face went pale as the overhead lights. The storm outside grew louder, wind howling through the maples. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the rain beating against the glass, and the old jukebox crackling out a mournful country tune.

Outside, the wind screamed, and for a moment, I swore I heard it whisper my name.