The Echo Man

Episode six-The One Who Disappeared

The room was small, windowless, and smelled faintly of ammonia.

Ava stood at the whiteboard, uncapping a dry-erase marker. She drew a timeline across the center, then stepped back. The board was nearly blank, except for three names and two red dots. Lana Everett. Amelia Creed. Fort Weller. Dates. Cities. Arrows pointing at nothing yet.

Behind her, Elias leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

“You’re missing one,” he said quietly.

Ava glanced over. “Another victim?”

“No,” he said. “Another ghost.”

He stepped forward, picked up the marker, and wrote in bold, sharp strokes:

LYLE MERCER — MISSING (FIVE YEARS)

“You think he’s the thread?” Ava asked.

Elias didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stared at the name as if it might move, or speak. The letters stared back.

“Amelia saw him three times a week before she died,” he said finally. “But after her murder, Mercer disappeared. No trace. No credit cards. No cellphone data. Like he planned it.”

Ava nodded. “The Bureau did a surface check at the time, right? Assumed he went off-grid.”

“They didn’t care,” Elias said. “They were too focused on closing the file. Mercer was unofficial. Freelance. No real record with the Bureau. No badge, no liability. Easy to bury.”

“But you think he’s still alive.”

Elias looked at her.

“I know he is.”

She believed him. She didn’t know why exactly, but she did.

“There’s a reason his name came up in the notes,” Elias said. “A reason that photo — the one with the Fort Weller symbol — was tucked in the back of the file. Amelia was trying to protect someone, or hide something, and she kept Mercer’s name close to it. That means he’s not just a witness. He’s part of it.”

“Part of what?” Ava asked.

Elias didn’t answer.

She crossed her arms, studying the board. “We need to find him.”

Elias nodded slowly. “We start with what he didn’t erase.”

They spent the next two hours combing through digital archives, old mental health licensing records, and every public-facing trace Mercer had left behind. It wasn’t much. He’d let his license expire a year before Amelia’s death. His office in Fairmont had been shut down since. No forwarding address, no social media, no next of kin listed.

It was like chasing fog.

But Elias kept digging.

He eventually found a small detail the Bureau had overlooked — a therapy retreat co-founded by Mercer in 2007, listed under a shell LLC out of Vermont. The retreat had shut down after just ten months, but its location?

Ava raised her brows as she scanned the screen. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

WELLER RIDGE, West Hollow.

Just ten miles outside Hollow Creek.

Ava looked at Elias. “You think he never left?”

“I think Mercer didn’t need to run far,” Elias said. “He just needed to disappear the right way. And Weller Ridge is close enough for him to keep watching.”

She closed the file. “If we find him—”

“We won’t ask questions.”

Ava frowned. “You mean you won’t.”

Elias’s voice was quiet. “If he knew what happened to Amelia, and he didn’t stop it, he’s not a witness.”

A beat passed between them.

Then Ava said, “I’ll drive.”

The road to Weller Ridge was narrow, winding, and broken in places. Snow still lingered in the shadows under the trees, packed down in patches that hadn’t melted. Ava kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near her service weapon. Not paranoia — just habit.

“Place was closed in 2009,” she said as they turned off the main road. “But the land was never sold. Records show it’s still owned by the LLC, but the business license expired years ago. Meaning technically, it’s abandoned.”

“Or squatted,” Elias said.

“Same thing, in this part of the state.”

The woods thickened as they drove deeper in. Pines towered on either side, hemming them in, blotting out what little sky there was. The air felt thinner somehow. Heavier.

Finally, the trees opened up.

The retreat was a cluster of three buildings — one main lodge and two smaller cabins. The windows were boarded. The grass was overgrown. The parking area was littered with rotting leaves and one rusted-out truck, tires flat, vines crawling up its frame.

Ava pulled to a stop and cut the engine.

Elias was already out of the car, scanning the buildings.

He pointed at the smaller cabin on the left. “Curtain just moved.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Ava unholstered her weapon.

They approached slowly, boots crunching on gravel and frost. Ava took the lead, her steps deliberate. Elias followed, watching the shadows between the trees more than the house itself.

She knocked on the door.

No answer.

“Dr. Lyle Mercer,” she called. “This is Detective Ava Ramirez, Hollow Creek PD. We’re not here to arrest you. We just want to talk.”

A full minute passed.

Then a sound — a creak. A lock sliding.

The door cracked open.

And there he was.

Older than his last photo. Gray hair now. Hollow cheeks. Eyes that darted between them like he’d seen this moment before in a dream he never wanted to wake from.

He looked first at Ava.

Then at Elias.

And he froze.

His mouth opened.

Then he whispered, “You’re supposed to be dead.”

Elias stepped forward. “We need to talk.”

Mercer shook his head slowly. “No. No, no, no — you shouldn’t have come. You don’t know what you’re waking up.”

Ava raised a brow. “Start explaining.”

But Mercer just looked at Elias.

And said, almost to himself, “They’ll know you’re here.”