Chương 8
She nodded too quickly.
"Someone was outside."
"Did you see them?"
"No."
"Then why do you think someone was there?"
She pointed toward the side window.
"The curtain moved."
Ortiz stepped inside.
"Did you touch anything?"
"No."
"Good."
Claire looked at me.
"Daniel, what is happening?"
I wanted to answer.
I wanted to give her something that would make the world feel normal again.
I couldn't.
"We don't know yet."
Her eyes narrowed.
"That is not an answer."
"No."
My voice softened.
"It's the truth."
She looked away.
That hurt more than anger would have.
Because she was tired of hearing uncertainty from me.
She had spent years watching me leave for places where uncertainty was normal.
Now it had followed me home.
An officer arrived and checked the outside of the house.
A few minutes later, he called Ortiz over.
She walked to the front porch.
I watched her expression change.
Not fear.
Concern.
When she came back inside, she had a small plastic bag.
"What is that?"
She handed it to me.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
"Found under the windshield wiper."
I stared at it.
"Why would they leave a note?"
"Maybe they wanted it found."
I looked at Ortiz.
"That's usually the point of leaving something."
She did not smile.
Not even slightly.
I opened the bag only after she nodded.
The paper inside contained one sentence.
You should have listened to your daughter.
My stomach tightened.
Not because of the words.
Because of the handwriting.
I knew it.
Not perfectly.
Not from memory.
From somewhere recent.
The same slant.
The same sharp way certain letters ended.
"Daniel?"
I didn't answer.
Ortiz noticed.
"What?"
I looked at the paper again.
"I've seen this."
"Where?"
I didn't know how to say it.
Because the answer sounded impossible.
"The letter."
She became still.
"The one from Violet?"
"Yes."
"Are you saying the handwriting matches?"
"No."
I shook my head.
"Not exactly."
I pointed.
"Look at the T."
She leaned closer.
"The way it crosses."
"And the pressure."
I touched the plastic, not the paper.
"Violet presses harder when she's angry."
Ortiz looked at me.
"Are you saying this is from your daughter?"
"No."
The answer came immediately.
"Someone copied her."
The room went quiet.
Claire looked between us.
"Why would someone do that?"
Nobody answered.
Because the answer was worse than the question.
They wanted me to think about Violet.
They wanted me to feel like this came from her.
They wanted me to react emotionally.
And they knew exactly what emotion they were trying to create.
Anger.
A patrol officer checked the surrounding area but found no one.
No vehicle.
No footprints that meant anything.
No camera footage that immediately solved the mystery.
Real life refused to provide clean answers.
I hated that.
I had spent years in situations where small details mattered.
Where a footprint could mean life or death.
Here, every detail had three possible meanings.
And two of them were probably wrong.
Ortiz pulled me aside.
"You need to hear this."
"What?"
"The lab confirmed the blood on Evan's jacket."
I waited.
"Violet's."
The confirmation should have made everything simple.
It didn't.
"What else?"
"There was another person's DNA on the jacket."
My eyes moved to hers.
"Who?"
"We don't know yet."
"Can you identify it?"
"We need time."
Time.
Everyone needed time.
My daughter had almost died because someone had decided they had enough time to do something terrible.
I looked back at Claire.
She was standing in the kitchen, holding herself together the way parents do when they have to be strong in front of someone else.
For years, I had believed my absence was the hardest thing I had given my family.
I was starting to understand that sometimes the damage came from what people inherited from you.
Fear.
Silence.
The habit of hiding pain until it became too heavy.
My phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number.
This time there was a photo.
I opened it.
My blood went cold.
It was Violet.
Not from the hospital.
Not from the attack.
A photo taken earlier.
She was sitting in the passenger seat of a car.
She looked upset.
The timestamp showed the picture was taken the night before she was attacked.
Below it was a message.
She trusted the wrong person.
Ortiz saw my face.
"What is it?"
I handed her the phone.
She looked at the image.
"Can you identify the car?"
"No."
She zoomed in.
The dashboard.
The seat.
The reflection in the window.
Nothing clear.
But there was something.
A small object hanging from the rearview mirror.
A silver circle with a black mark in the center.
I knew it.
My memory reached for it before I could stop it.
"Daniel?"
I stared at the image.
"I've seen that."
"Where?"
I looked at Ortiz.
"Evan's house."
The room changed.
Not because we had an answer.
Because we had a direction.
And directions were dangerous.
They made people move before they understood where they were going.
"Take me there," I said.
Ortiz shook her head.
"No."
I looked at her.
"Why?"
"Because if that photo was sent to you, they want you to go there."
I said nothing.
She stepped closer.
"Someone is not trying to hide from you anymore."
She looked at the phone.
"They are trying to control you."
For the first time since I came home, I felt something besides anger.
I felt watched.
Not by a person outside the window.
By someone who had been studying us.
Learning our habits.
Learning our weaknesses.
And the worst part was realizing they had not chosen Violet because she was vulnerable.
They had chosen her because she was mine.
They had chosen her because she was mine.
For a moment, that thought consumed every other one.
Then I remembered Violet's handwriting.
Her letter.
Her warning.
Please be my dad first.
May you like
I closed my eyes.
A different version of me would have taken the phone, found Evan, and demanded answers with every weapon available to him.
