“Clare.”
I looked down at the two incriminating pieces of stationery crushed in my fist.
Then I said the phrase I had prayed I would never need.
“Blue Lantern.”
The atmosphere on the line changed instantly.
The sleep disappeared from Martin’s voice, replaced by the icy precision of a military tactician.
“Clare. Do not explain the narrative yet. First, provide your exact geographical coordinates.”
“Phuket. The resort we discussed before my departure.”
“Full name of the property?”
I gave it to him.
“Room number?”
I provided that too.
“Are you currently suffering from any physical injuries?”
“No.”
“Do you have access to physical currency or credit lines?”
“Some cards are still in my wallet, yes.”
“Do you possess your passport?”
“No.”
“Cellular device?”
“Taken.”
He paused.
“Clare, this may sound overly cautious, but are you in immediate, physical danger from anyone in your current vicinity?”
“No.”
“Good.”
The tension in my chest loosened slightly.
Martin possessed the unique ability to take a burning skyscraper and reduce it to six actionable bullet points on a legal pad.
“Now. Walk me through the event.”
I gave him the surgical version.
I woke up.
My husband, mother-in-law, and stepdaughter had vanished.
My communications and identification had been taken.
My flight had been canceled.
Two mocking notes had been left behind.
When I finished, Martin exhaled slowly.
“Okay.”
“‘Okay’ means we have a logistical puzzle, not a tragedy,” I noted dryly. “It feels rather tragic from this side of the hemisphere.”
“You haven’t lost your sarcasm,” he observed. “That indicates your prefrontal cortex is still engaged. We follow the protocol. Blue Lantern dictates I execute three actions: I authenticate your location, I secure emerging evidence, and I alert your designated domestic proxies. I do not make emotional choices for you. Do you copy?”
“I copy.”
“First directive: Do not leave the property.”
“I wasn’t planning on swimming back to Ohio.”
“Second: Instruct property management to archive all checkout ledgers and security surveillance from the morning window.”
“Already requested.”
“Third: We initiate a stolen passport claim through the consulate. You will require local police documentation.”
I closed my eyes.
“Martin, I know the procedure. I used to draft the manuals for this.”
“And now you are enjoying the premium immersive experience,” his voice softened just a fraction. “Listen to me, Clare. Your primary objective right now is not to dissect the autopsy of your marriage. Your objective is to reclaim your identity, secure your liquidity, and facilitate extraction. Greg can rot until you are on domestic soil.”
He was right.
A hysterical loop in my mind kept screaming Why? Why would he let Diane do this?
But those questions couldn’t forge a passport.
I approached Knock again.
“I require a significant favor.”
She braced herself.
“I suspected you might.”
I explained the need to preserve the security footage of Greg’s departure.
Knock nodded sympathetically.
“We can preserve the digital files, yes.”
“I need to view them.”
Her face tightened.
“That presents a complication. Property policy explicitly forbids distributing surveillance media to guests without a formal police subpoena.”
A sharp spike of irritation pierced my chest.
The one piece of evidence that could prove my husband had deliberately taken my documents was locked behind a bureaucratic firewall.
“I don’t want to upload it to YouTube, Knock. I just need to verify what he was carrying.”
“I cannot display it,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder. “But I will ensure the server does not overwrite the timestamp.”
It was a small victory.
But it mattered.
By late morning, I was sitting in a quiet corner of the lobby with a borrowed legal pad, surviving on black coffee.
Using a hotel computer, I attempted to access my email server.
The password worked.
