Dead Man Watching

CHAPTER TWO: The Notebook

For several seconds, Nadia remained seated in front of her computer, staring at the message that had appeared on the screen.

You should have left the dead alone.

Beneath it, another sentence waited like a threat disguised as advice.

Now they know you are looking.

She read the words several times, hoping that repetition would somehow make them less disturbing. It did not. The message remained exactly where it was, black letters against a white screen, carrying the unmistakable certainty that someone had deliberately placed it there.

Nadia reached for the mouse and clicked the screen.

Nothing happened.

She pressed the escape key, then tried to close the browser window, but the computer responded with an error message. She tried again, and this time the screen went black.

Her reflection appeared faintly in the dark glass.

She looked pale.

For the first time since arriving at work, she became aware of how loud the newsroom had become around her. Phones were ringing, keyboards were clicking, and someone near the editing desk was arguing about a headline. Nobody seemed to have noticed that anything unusual had happened.

Nadia looked over her shoulder.

The nearest reporter was buried in his laptop, while two editors stood several desks away discussing a photograph. Nobody was looking at her.

She turned back to the computer.

The screen returned to normal.

Her email inbox was open again, and the message containing the newspaper clipping had disappeared completely.

Nadia checked the deleted folder.

Nothing.

She searched the archive system.

There was no record of the email.

For a moment, she wondered whether exhaustion had finally begun affecting her judgment.

Then she remembered the letter.

She remembered the false panel.

She remembered the footprints.

Whatever was happening was not confined to her imagination.

Nadia reached into her handbag and pulled out her phone. She opened her contacts and stopped at Rowan Mercer’s name for the second time that morning.

This time, she pressed call.

He answered after the third ring.

“Nadia?”

His voice sounded slightly breathless, as though she had caught him between tasks.

“I need to ask you something about the Elias Hart case.”

There was a pause on the other end.

It was brief, but she noticed it.

“What about it?”

“When Hart died, who was present?”

“Why are you asking me about Hart?”

“I found something.”

“What did you find?”

Nadia looked around the newsroom before lowering her voice.

“Something connected to my father.”

Another pause followed.

“I thought your father retired before the final investigation was closed.”

“He did, officially.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I am beginning to think the official story is not the whole story.”

Rowan sighed quietly.

“Where are you?”

“At the office.”

“I can meet you there.”

Nadia hesitated.

“Not yet.”

“Nadia.”

“I need to understand what I am looking at before I involve anyone else.”

“You called me because you think someone is watching you.”

She said nothing.

Rowan’s voice became more serious.

“That is what you think, isn’t it?”

“I do not know what I think.”

“You should go home.”

“I cannot.”

“Why?”

“Because someone wants me to stop looking.”

There was silence.

Nadia stared at the newspaper clipping still open on her second monitor.

“That usually means there is something worth finding.”

Rowan exhaled.

“Do not investigate this alone.”

“I will call you if I find anything.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“I know.”

She ended the call before he could argue.

For the next two hours, Nadia tried to work.

She answered emails, edited a junior reporter’s article, and attended a meeting about an upcoming investigative series, but her attention kept returning to the same question.

Why had her father hidden information about Elias Hart?

She knew that Samuel had worked on the case, but she had always believed his involvement ended with Hart’s arrest and subsequent conviction. If her father had continued investigating the case privately, there should have been some record of it.

Unless he had deliberately made sure there wasn’t.

At eleven thirty, Nadia left her desk and walked toward the newspaper’s archive department.

The archive was located in the oldest section of the building, where the walls were lined with shelves containing decades of newspapers, interview recordings, photographs, and documents that had never been digitised. The room always smelled faintly of dust and paper, and the narrow windows allowed only thin strips of sunlight to enter.

Mr. Adewale, the archivist, looked up when she entered.

He was an elderly man with silver hair and the permanent expression of someone who had spent too many years watching journalists search for information five minutes before a deadline.

“You are back.”

“I am.”

“I heard about your father.”

Nadia smiled politely.

“Thank you.”

He nodded and returned his attention to the newspaper in front of him.

“I need access to the Hart files.”

His eyes lifted again.

“Which ones?”

“All of them.”

Mr. Adewale leaned back in his chair.

“That is a lot of material.”

“I have time.”

“You always say that before discovering you have given yourself three hours to read fifteen years of history.”

“I am not on a deadline.”

“That is what makes me suspicious.”

Nadia laughed softly.

It was the first genuine laugh she had managed all morning.

He eventually led her toward a row of filing cabinets at the back of the room.

The Hart investigation occupied three shelves.

Nadia stared at them.

There were newspaper clippings, interview transcripts, photographs, court reports, and internal documents that had been preserved long before digital archives became standard.

She pulled out the first file.

The earliest reports described Hart as a quiet man with an interest in observing people. Several witnesses had reported seeing him near the homes and workplaces of women who later became associated with his investigation.

The reports were disturbing, but familiar.

Nadia continued reading.

Then she found something strange.

A handwritten note had been attached to the back of one of the files.

Review surveillance reports before accepting witness statements.

There was no signature.

She turned the page.

Another note appeared.

Ask Samuel why he removed the photographs.

Nadia stopped breathing for a moment.

Her father’s name was written clearly across the page.

She looked toward Mr. Adewale.

He was still seated at his desk.

“Did my father ever access these files?”

The archivist looked at her for a long moment before answering.

“Many times.”

“Recently?”

He shook his head.

“Not recently.”

“Are you sure?”

“I remember him.”

Nadia lowered her voice.

“Did he ever ask you to remove anything?”

Mr. Adewale’s expression changed slightly.

“What makes you ask that?”

“I found something in his study.”

“What did you find?”

She considered telling him about the notebook.

Instead, she asked another question.

“Did my father ever investigate Elias Hart after the case was officially closed?”

The old man’s gaze shifted toward the shelves.

“He asked questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Questions about people who were supposed to be dead.”

Nadia felt the hair on her arms rise.

“Who?”

Mr. Adewale looked at her.

Then he shook his head.

“I think you should ask your father’s old colleagues.”

“They are not going to tell me anything.”

“Then perhaps they are the people you should be asking.”

Before Nadia could respond, he stood and walked toward another section of the archive.

He returned a few minutes later carrying a thin brown folder.

“This was never digitised.”

He placed it on the table.

“Your father requested that it remain private.”

Nadia stared at the folder.

“Why are you giving it to me now?”

“Because he is dead.”

There was something about the simplicity of his answer that unsettled her.

She opened the folder.

Inside were six pages.

The first was a report from fifteen years earlier.

The second contained a photograph.

The third was a list of names.

The fourth appeared to be a transcript.

The remaining two pages were almost completely blacked out.

Nadia turned to the photograph.

It showed Elias Hart sitting inside an interrogation room.

He looked younger than she remembered from the newspapers, but his expression was exactly the same.

Calm.

Almost patient.

There was someone sitting opposite him.

The photograph had been taken from behind the person, so Nadia could not see his face.

But she recognized the suit.

Her father’s suit.

She turned the photograph over.

A date had been written on the back.

September 18, 2011.

The same date she had seen circled on her father’s calendar.

Nadia placed the photograph on the table.

Her hands had begun to shake.

She picked up the transcript.

Most of it consisted of ordinary questions about Hart’s movements, his relationships, and his knowledge of the missing women.

Then she reached the final page.

The last exchange had been handwritten rather than typed.

Samuel: Who else was involved?

Hart: You already know.

Samuel: I want you to say the name.

Hart: If I say it, your daughter becomes part of this.

Nadia stopped reading.

The room seemed to tilt slightly.

She read the sentence again.

Your daughter.

Her father had never mentioned her during the investigation.

At least, not according to anything Nadia had ever seen.

She turned the page.

There was one final sentence.

Samuel: She knows nothing.

Hart: That is why she is still alive.

Nadia’s fingers went cold.

She immediately reached for her phone.

She needed Rowan.

She needed someone to tell her that there was another explanation.

Before she could unlock the screen, her phone vibrated.

An unknown number had sent a message.

Nadia opened it.

There was a photograph attached.

It showed the archive room.

It showed her sitting at the table.

It showed the brown folder open in front of her.

The photograph had been taken from somewhere inside the room.

Nadia slowly raised her eyes.

The archive appeared unchanged.

Mr. Adewale was still at his desk.

The door was closed.

The windows were shut.

She looked behind the shelves.

Nothing.

Her phone vibrated again.

Another message appeared.

You were warned not to look.

A second message followed almost immediately.

Now you need to know why your father kept you alive.