Chapter 3 - Hunting a Ghost in Madison
The sun was just beginning to streak the Wisconsin sky with pale amber light when I walked back into our quiet house in Madison.
The silence inside was deafening. Ethan’s green dinosaur backpack still sat by the pantry where he had dropped it on Tuesday afternoon. His muddy soccer cleats were lined up neatly by the back door. Everything in the house was frozen in amber, waiting for a little boy who was currently lying in a sterile hospital bed two hours away, fighting for his life against an enemy he didn't even know existed.
I didn't have time to fall apart. I didn't have the luxury of grief. Seventy-two hours. That was all Dr. Vance had given me.
I sat down at the kitchen table, booted up my old laptop, and stared at the blank screen. Where do you start looking for a man who deliberately erased himself from the grid a decade ago?
Thomas didn't have social media. He didn't use Facebook, Instagram, or LinkedIn back when we were together, and a quick digital sweep confirmed he hadn't created any public profiles since. His old cell phone number had been disconnected within weeks of his departure. The bookstore in downtown Madison where he used to work had closed down during the pandemic.
I was hunting a ghost in a city full of strangers.
Desperate, I grabbed my car keys and drove downtown to the municipal archives and the county records office. If Thomas had been a graduate student at the University of Wisconsin-Madison back in 2015, there had to be a paper trail somewhere. Student housing records, tax filings, parking tickets, financial aid applications—somewhere in the bureaucratic machinery of the state, his name was etched into digital ink.
The clerk at the county records office was a tired-looking woman with graying hair named Brenda who looked like she had spent forty years arguing with people about zoning permits.
“I need to locate historical university enrollment records from the Department of Philosophy and Comparative Literature for the academic year 2014-2015,” I said, leaning over the counter, my voice breathless.
Brenda peered at me over her half-moon reading glasses. “Honey, student privacy laws under FERPA are strict. Unless you’re law enforcement or an immediate family member with verified legal standing, I can't just hand over university transcripts.”
“I am an immediate family member,” I lied, my voice cracking slightly. “I’m his... his wife. We’re trying to locate him regarding urgent medical decisions for our child.”
Brenda’s expression softened slightly, though professional caution still lingered in her eyes. “Name?”
“Thomas Sterling.”
She turned to her clunky desktop computer, her fingers tapping rhythmically against the keyboard. The green screen reflected in her glasses as she scrolled through archived databases.
“Sterling, Thomas,” she muttered. “Graduate student assistantship... philosophy department... graduated with a master’s in spring 2016. Last known local address: 412 Oakridge Lane, apartment 3B.”
My heart skipped a beat. An address! Even if it was ten years old, it was a starting point.
“Is there an emergency contact listed?” I asked, leaning further over the counter. “A parent? A sibling? Anything?”
Brenda clicked through another screen. “Emergency contact... listed as Arthur Sterling, father, residing in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Wait... let me check property records for that name.”
She clicked again, and a small, triumphant smile crossed her lips. “Well, look at that. Arthur Sterling owned a commercial timber and land surveying firm up north near Wausau. The business is still active under the name Sterling & Sons Land Management.”
I stared at her, a cold shock wave rippling through my chest.
Thomas hadn't been some broke, wandering college student with no safety net. He came from a family business. A family with money, resources, and roots in northern Wisconsin. And he had lied to me about every single aspect of his life from the day we met.
May you like
“Thank you, Brenda,” I whispered, grabbing my purse and rushing out of the municipal building before she could ask any more questions.
By 11:30 a.m., I was flying north on Interstate 39, pushing my old SUV well past the speed limit, the pine forests of central Wisconsin blurring into a solid wall of green. Destination: Wausau, Wisconsin.
