Hearing Trapped Cries Inside Her Husband's Public Statue, She Uncovers a Fatal Political Secret
Days later, Maya’s phone buzzed with an unfamiliar number. She hesitated, remembering the string of cold calls and hangs-ups she’d received since the gala. But something urged her to answer.
“Maya Kincaid?” a crisp, professional voice asked. “This is Detective Sarah Dempsey, Seattle PD Homicide.”
Maya gripped the phone. “Detective. How did you get my number?”
“Official channels,” Dempsey replied, a hint of steel in her tone. “I’ve been reviewing security footage from the Cultural Center perimeter, dated three nights ago. You appear to be… quite agitated.”
Maya’s jaw tightened. “I was agitated because I heard a human being trapped inside that statue, Detective. A fact my husband chose to ignore.”
“I understand,” Dempsey said, though her voice gave nothing away. “I’m not calling about the sculpture directly. Not yet. I’m investigating a missing persons case.”
“Who?” Maya asked, a knot forming in her stomach.
“Ethan Cross. Twenty-four years old. He was a financial auditor assigned to Lieutenant Governor Kincaid’s Senate campaign. Vanished three days ago. Just around the time your gala was happening.”
Maya’s mind raced. An auditor. Julian’s campaign. The same timeframe. “What does that have to do with me, or the Cultural Center?”
“His last known phone GPS ping,” Dempsey continued, her voice gaining a sharp edge, “placed him within a quarter-mile radius of an industrial studio on South Spokane Street, owned by the Kincaid Foundation, roughly six hours before that sculpture was delivered to the museum.”
Maya’s breath caught. Six hours. Before delivery. That was the window when the statue was moved, when the forged provenance claimed it was still in Europe.
“His phone,” Maya repeated, her voice barely a whisper. “Did it have a transponder, Detective?”
“All modern smartphones do,” Dempsey confirmed. “It pinged from that location, then went silent. No outgoing calls, no texts. Just… nothing. It’s highly unusual for someone with his meticulous habits.”
“An industrial studio,” Maya mused, piecing it together. “The Kincaid Foundation. Is it used for… anything besides storage?”
“It’s listed as a maintenance facility, largely unused,” Dempsey said. “But we’ve received reports of unusual activity there in the last week. Heavy equipment, late-night deliveries.”
Maya pressed her eyes shut. She visualized the map of Seattle, the locations aligning. The industrial studio. The time of Ethan’s disappearance. The moment the statue was sealed.
“Detective,” Maya said, her voice raw, “Ethan Cross didn’t just disappear. His phone was pinging inside Julian’s private campaign lodge for hours before the statue was delivered to the museum.”
Dempsey paused, a beat of silence on the line. “How do you know that, Ms. Kincaid?”
“Because the transponder signal Caleb Finch found inside the statue at the gala matched the frequency of a modern smartphone, Detective,” Maya stated, a shiver running down her spine. “And my husband’s private lodge is only a few blocks from that industrial studio.”
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