"Why would he do that?" Sandstone asked.
"Insurance," Rivera said. "If he ever got caught, he wanted leverage. Proof that he wasn't acting alone. Names to trade."
Luther leaned forward, scanned the ledger.
His finger stopped on one line.
March 17th, 2009/Burnham, L/South Welch Corridor/$146,800/Ridge Development Partners/Placement, D.
"Burnham to County Development Services. Facility 7."
His vision tunneled.
There it was.
Black ink on yellowed paper.
The day his family lost everything.
The amount paid. The name of the company.
And the note about Dwayne's placement.
Facility 7.
He'd never heard that designation before.
"What's Facility 7?" he asked.
Voice very quiet.
Rivera flipped through the ledger, found another reference, then another.
"It appears 16 times. Always in connection with a displacement. Always a vulnerable family member. Always someone with a disability or medical need."
"A county facility?"
"We don't think so. The county developmental services system only had three official facilities in 2009. None of them were designated by number."
Rimshot was already typing.
"Checking county contracts from 2009," he said. "Cross-referencing Facility 7 and Developmental Services."
30 seconds of silence.
Just the sound of keys clicking.
And the growing sense that whatever he was about to find would change the scope of everything they thought they knew.
Then Rimshot stopped.
"Got something. 2008. County signed a 5-year contract with a private care provider called Appalachian Community Support Services. Contract included housing for up to 40 adults with developmental disabilities. The contract designated their locations as facilities 1 through 8."
"Where's Facility 7?" Luther asked.
More typing.
"Birchwood Corridor. The same area Aldridge cleared for development in 2019."
The room went very quiet.
"Let me guess," Specter said. "The facility closed before the development deal went through."
"2010," Rimshot confirmed. "Contract terminated early. County cited budget constraints."
"Where did the residents go?" Luther asked.
Rimshot's face went pale as he read.
"Files were transferred to Independent Living Services. No forwarding addresses listed. Oversight transferred to a county social worker who..."
He stopped.
Scrolled.
"Who resigned 6 months later. Personal reasons."
Luther stood up, walked to the window, stared out at the hollow.
His brother had been in Facility 7 when it closed.
His brother's file said he'd been transferred to Independent Living, but there was no record of where.
No forwarding address.
No follow-up.
Just a closed file and a system that had moved on.
"How many people were in Facility 7 when it closed?" he asked, not turning around.
"19," Rimshot said quietly.
"How many have documented follow-up records?"
Silence.
Then, "Three."
Luther's hands curled into fists against the windowsill.