Chapter 5 - The Woman on the Other Side of the Telephone—Dahlia Is AliveAt 8:13 on Friday morning, Cora received a telephone call from an unknown number.
She was sitting beside the windows in the garden room, one crutch resting against the sofa and the other lying across her lap. Her ankle still hurt whenever she moved it incorrectly, but Dr. Osei had approved short periods of supported movement.
Ellie was downstairs with Marisol, learning how to make paper butterflies.
For the first time since the fall, Cora had a few minutes alone.
She had spent the morning reviewing the photographs of the documents recovered from the Aldwych. Evelyn had arranged for copies to be stored securely, and an independent investigator was examining the financial records.
The west ledger remained missing.
The bracelet had been photographed and documented.
And the identity of the person sending the messages remained unknown.
When the telephone rang, Cora assumed it was Evelyn.
She answered without checking the number.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then a woman whispered, “Cora?”
Cora's hand tightened around the telephone.
The voice was thin, strained, and familiar enough to make her forget the pain in her ankle.
“Who is this?”
“You need to stop asking about the ledger.”
Cora stood too quickly, catching herself against the sofa.
“Dahlia?”
A breath shuddered through the speaker.
“Please. Listen to me.”
Cora's heart began pounding.
For three months, she had imagined this conversation. In some versions, Dahlia called to explain that she had found another job. In others, she confessed that she had been frightened and left the city. Cora had even imagined a version in which Dahlia answered with a cheerful laugh and apologized for disappearing without saying goodbye.
She had never imagined hearing terror in her friend's voice.
“Where are you?” Cora asked.
“I can't tell you.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Not right now.”
The qualification frightened Cora more than a direct answer would have.
“Dahlia, I found your name in the accounting office. I saw the records. I know something happened to you.”
“You don't know enough.”
“Then tell me.”
“No.”
Cora closed her eyes.
“Please. I've spent three months wondering whether you're alive.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because you disappeared, and nobody would tell us anything. Marisol was frightened to speak. People kept saying you'd resigned. I thought you were dead.”
The woman on the telephone began crying.
Cora pressed the device more tightly against her ear.
“Dahlia?”
“I wanted to call you. I tried. I couldn't.”
“Why?”
“Because they said they knew where Ellie went to preschool.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Cora gripped the back of the sofa.
“What did you say?”
“They knew about your daughter. They knew where you lived. They said if I contacted anyone, they would make sure I never saw my family again.”
Cora could barely breathe.
“Who said that?”
“I can't tell you over the telephone.”
“Then tell me where to meet you.”
“No.”
“Dahlia, I'm trying to help you.”
“I know. That's why I'm calling.”
The words made no sense.
Cora heard a faint noise on the other end, followed by Dahlia's hurried breathing.
“I have only a minute. Listen carefully. The west ledger isn't a single book. It's a set of records. There are copies, and each copy contains different information. One has the payments. One has the names. The last one has the locations.”
“Locations of what?”
“The women.”
Cora's knees weakened.
“Where are they?”
“I don't know all of them. Some were moved. Some were threatened into leaving. Some were sent to places where nobody knew their names.”
“Were you?”
Silence.
Then Dahlia whispered, “Yes.”
Cora covered her mouth.
She had known Dahlia for two years. They had shared late-night meals in the staff break room, complained about the hotel laundry, and discussed the small things that made life bearable.
Dahlia had once spent an entire week's savings buying a winter coat for her younger sister.
She had laughed loudly, worked quickly, and kept a photograph of her mother inside her locker.
Cora had never imagined that anyone could take such a person and turn her life into a secret.
“Are you safe now?” she asked.
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
“Cora, you need to understand something. The people involved aren't all criminals who hide in dark rooms. Some wear expensive suits. Some have families. Some give money to hospitals and appear in newspapers beside politicians.”
Cora thought of the Aldwych ballroom.
The chandeliers.
The champagne.
The people who had stepped around her injured body.
“Does Soren know?” she asked.
Dahlia went silent.
“Cora, how do you know that name?”
“He helped me.”
“He's dangerous.”
“He also believed me.”
“Those things can both be true.”
Cora had no answer.
Dahlia continued.
“If Soren Vance is involved in this, you cannot assume his protection means he's innocent.”
“I don't.”
“Good. Don't let him make decisions for you. Don't let anyone tell you that you must trust them because they have money or guards.”
Cora glanced toward the doorway.
“No one is telling me that.”
“Then keep it that way.”
A sound came through the telephone. A door closing, perhaps, followed by a man's voice too distant to understand.
Dahlia's breathing quickened.
“I have to go.”
“Wait. Please. Tell me where you are.”
“I can't.”
“Then give me something. Anything. How do I find you?”
Dahlia was quiet for several seconds.
Then she said, “Ask why the hotel paid for the Saint Agnes residence.”
The call ended.
Cora remained motionless.
She tried calling back, but the number was no longer available.
A moment later, Soren entered the room.
He stopped when he saw her expression.
“What happened?”
Cora looked up.
“It was Dahlia.”
His face changed.
“Are you certain?”
“I know her voice.”
“What did she say?”
Cora told him everything.
She described the call, the threats, the missing women, and the name Saint Agnes.
Soren listened without interruption.
When she finished, he took out his telephone and called Evelyn.
“Find every financial record connected to Saint Agnes,” he said. “Property transfers, staffing contracts, security invoices, charitable donations. Everything that can be obtained lawfully.”
He ended the call.
Cora watched him.
“Do you know what Saint Agnes is?”
“Not yet.”
“Then we find out.”
Soren looked at her injured ankle.
“You're not going anywhere today.”
She stiffened.
“I'm not asking to go anywhere.”
“Good.”
“But I am going to be involved in the investigation.”
“I know.”
“Then stop speaking as though I need permission.”
The words landed harder than she intended.
Soren was silent.
For several seconds, she saw the instinctive response in his face: the desire to control the danger by controlling every person exposed to it.
Then he stepped back.
“You're right.”
Cora had expected an argument.
Instead, he pulled a chair away from the table and sat down.
“I was frightened when you told me she had contacted you,” he said. “My first instinct was to put more guards around you and forbid you from doing anything that might expose you to another threat.”
“That's not the same as keeping me safe.”
“No. It isn't.”
He looked toward the telephone in her hand.
“I don't want you to become a prisoner in a place you came to because you needed protection.”
Cora's anger softened, though it did not disappear.
“Then help me make informed decisions. Don't make them for me.”
Soren nodded.
“All right. We will review every step with Evelyn, establish what risks we can reasonably reduce, and decide together what information should be shared with investigators. You retain the right to stop participating whenever you choose.”
“And if I decide to meet Dahlia?”
“We will discuss how to do it safely. I won't promise there is no risk, but I won't prevent you from making the decision.”
Cora studied him.
It was a small victory.
It was also a beginning.
Saint Agnes had once been a residential care facility on the outskirts of the city.
It had closed seven years earlier after losing its operating license. The building had since changed ownership twice, most recently through a property company connected to the Aldwych's temporary staffing agency.
Official records described it as a vacant property awaiting redevelopment.
There were no registered residents.
No active care services.
No employees.
Yet the hotel had paid the company managing the property more than half a million dollars over eighteen months.
The payments had been categorized as maintenance, temporary accommodation, and emergency staffing.
Cora stared at the records in Evelyn's office that afternoon.
“Why would a hotel pay for a closed care facility?”
Evelyn adjusted her glasses.
“There are legitimate reasons a company might pay to secure an empty property. Insurance, utilities, preservation work. But the amounts and frequency require explanation, particularly when connected to the other transactions we've identified.”
Soren stood beside the window.
“Can we establish whether anyone has been inside?”
“The property is privately owned. We cannot simply enter because the records look suspicious,” Evelyn replied. “We can ask investigators to examine the information and pursue lawful access. We can also seek public records concerning ownership and permits.”
Cora looked at the map.
Saint Agnes stood beside an old railway line, several miles from the hotel.
“Could Dahlia be there?”
“Possibly,” Evelyn said. “But we should not assume that the caller's reference establishes her current location.”
Soren turned from the window.
“She's frightened enough to risk contacting Cora. If we move too quickly, we could alert whoever is controlling her.”
“And if we move too slowly?” Cora asked.
“Someone could disappear again.”
“Then we need to act.”
Evelyn closed the folder.
“We need to act carefully. That isn't the same as doing nothing.”
The distinction was difficult to accept.
Cora wanted to drive to Saint Agnes immediately, knock on every door, and demand to know where Dahlia was.
She knew that was impossible.
She was injured, the building was private property, and there was no proof that Dahlia was there.
More importantly, she understood that the people responsible had already demonstrated their willingness to threaten witnesses.
A reckless rescue attempt might give them another opportunity to move the women.
So Cora agreed to wait for the investigators.
But she refused to let the matter become another file placed at the bottom of someone's desk.
Before leaving Evelyn's office, she wrote Dahlia's name at the top of a clean sheet of paper.
Beneath it, she wrote the names of every woman she could remember from the Aldwych who had disappeared unexpectedly.
Seven names.
Then an eighth.
She placed the sheet inside her folder.
Whatever happened next, she would not allow them to remain anonymous.
That evening, Soren found her in the kitchen attempting to make coffee with a machine she did not understand.
“You're going to destroy it,” he said.
Cora looked over her shoulder.
“It's a coffee machine. It can't possibly be that complicated.”
The machine emitted a sharp mechanical noise.
She stepped back.
Soren reached past her, pressed two buttons, and stopped the process.
The machine fell silent.
Cora stared at it.
“I hate this house.”
“That's understandable.”
“Everything has too many buttons.”
“Would you prefer a simpler house?”
“I'd prefer my apartment.”
He looked at her for a moment.
“I know.”
The answer removed the humor from the conversation.
Cora lowered her eyes.
“I miss my kitchen. I miss the sound of the neighbor's television. I miss knowing which floorboard creaks when I walk to Ellie's room.”
Soren leaned against the counter.
“Then we should arrange for you to return when it's safe enough.”
“Will it ever be safe enough?”
“I don't know.”
She appreciated that he did not pretend otherwise.
He prepared the coffee manually, using a small filter and hot water.
The result was ordinary, slightly bitter, and exactly what Cora wanted.
They stood beside the counter, drinking in silence.
After a while, Soren asked, “Do you think Dahlia trusts you?”
Cora considered the question.
“I think she trusts that I care about her. I don't know whether she trusts me to help her.”
“What's the difference?”
“Caring is easy when you don't have to risk anything. Helping someone can mean making choices that frighten them, even when you believe you're doing the right thing.”
Soren looked at his cup.
“You think I do that?”
“Sometimes.”
He accepted the answer without argument.
Cora continued.
“You want to keep everyone safe. But when you become frightened, you start deciding what everyone else should do.”
“It's a habit.”
“Then it is a habit you need to change.”
For a moment, she thought he might be offended.
Instead, he smiled faintly.
“You are remarkably comfortable criticizing a man who could make a great many people uncomfortable.”
“I'm not criticizing you because I'm comfortable.”
She met his eyes.
“I'm criticizing you because I don't want to become afraid of you.”
The smile disappeared.
Soren set down his cup.
“Then I will have to give you reasons not to be.”
It was not a declaration of love.
It was something more useful.
A promise that required effort.
Later that night, Evelyn received a message from the independent investigator.
The Saint Agnes property had been visited by a private security company three times during the previous month.
On two occasions, the visits had occurred after midnight.
The company had no active contract with the registered owner.
Its invoices, however, were connected to a financial account associated with the Aldwych.
There was one more detail.
The company was registered to a holding business controlled by Adrian Vance.
Soren read the report in silence.
Cora watched his face.
“Your brother?”
“We need to establish why his company is connected to the property.”
“Do you believe he knows what happened to Dahlia?”
Soren looked toward the darkened windows.
“I believe he knows more than he has told me.”
For the first time, Cora saw something close to grief in his expression.
Not grief for the missing women.
Grief for the possibility that the truth might destroy the last part of his family he still wanted to believe was worth saving.
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And she understood that the next discovery would not simply determine who had taken Dahlia.
It would determine whether Soren could confront the people he loved with the same courage he demanded from everyone else.
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