Chương 7
He handed me a cup of coffee.
I looked at it.
“I didn't ask for this.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because you looked like you were about to fall over.”
I looked at the cup.
Then I took it.
It was terrible coffee.
Cold.
Too bitter.
I drank it anyway.
“Where is the phone?”
“Evidence.”
“Show me.”
He led me into a small conference room.
A detective I had not met sat near a laptop.
“This is Officer Lena Brooks.”
She nodded.
“Mr. Harper.”
“Call me Ethan.”
She looked at Mills before answering.
“Okay, Ethan.”
I noticed the hesitation.
People often hesitated when they were unsure whether to treat me like a father or like something dangerous.
I hated that I had become both.
Brooks turned the laptop toward me.
“We recovered messages from an encrypted app.”
“What app?”
“Something teenagers use to hide conversations.”
“Can you trace it?”
“Sometimes.”
She clicked through several screens.
“Not easily.”
I watched the messages appear.
Most were ordinary.
Plans.
Jokes.
School complaints.
Then I saw Violet's name.
The conversation with Emma started three weeks before the attack.
At first, nothing seemed wrong.
Emma complained about grades.
Violet complained about homework.
They talked about birthday plans.
Then the tone changed.
Emma wrote about needing help.
Not money directly.
Help.
Violet responded with concern.
Then came the first mention of me.
My stomach tightened.
“She asked about me.”
Mills nodded.
“Yes.”
I kept reading.
Emma had asked if I knew anyone who could “fix problems.”
Violet had asked what kind of problems.
Emma never answered clearly.
The messages became more desperate.
Then the unknown number appeared.
Brooks pointed at the screen.
“This is the message I mentioned.”
I read it again.
Ask your father about the night he came home from Kandahar.
The words looked different now.
Not like a threat.
Like a reminder.
“What happened in Kandahar?” Mills asked.
I looked at him.
“I can't discuss classified operations.”
He nodded.
“I expected that answer.”
“But?”
“But your daughter was attacked because someone believes that answer matters.”
I looked away.
The room felt too small.
“Eight years ago,” I said slowly, “I was part of an extraction mission.”
Mills listened.
“We were supposed to recover a civilian contractor.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
The hesitation came before the next sentence.
“But not everyone involved wanted him recovered.”
Mills leaned forward.
“Who didn't?”
“I don't know.”
That was the truth.
A truth I hated.
The mission had gone wrong.
A location was compromised.
A team was exposed.
We survived because someone gave us information at the last second.
The person who provided that information disappeared afterward.
No name.
No explanation.
Just a message delivered through a secure channel.
Get out now.
I had spent years wondering who saved us.
And years wondering who sold us out.
“You think someone from that mission is connected to this?”
Mills asked.
“I think someone wants me to think that.”
That was different.
A dangerous person did not always attack with facts.
Sometimes they attacked with uncertainty.
Brooks closed the laptop.
“There is another thing.”
“What?”
“The messages from Emma's phone.”
She opened another file.
“Most of them are deleted.”
“Can you recover them?”
“Some.”
She looked uncomfortable.
“But there is something strange.”
“What?”
“Emma's account was accessed after the attack.”
“When?”
“Two hours later.”
“From where?”
She looked at Mills.
“Your house.”
The room went silent.
I stared at the screen.
“No.”
Brooks nodded.
“We checked twice.”
“Impossible.”
“Not impossible.”
She turned the laptop.
“Someone used Emma's account from a device connected to your home Wi-Fi.”
My mind started moving through possibilities.
Someone stayed after the attack.
Someone searched.
Someone deleted information.
Someone wanted control of the story.
Mills watched me carefully.
“You have an idea.”
“I have possibilities.”
“Which are?”
I stood up.
“Your department needs to protect Emma.”
Mills frowned.
“Why?”
“Because whoever did this might not be finished with her.”
“Or?”
I looked at him.
“Or Emma is the person who knows why.”
The drive back to the hospital felt shorter than the drive there.
Maybe because I was no longer searching for a random attacker.
I had a direction.
A person.
A reason.
But direction was not the same as certainty.
That was something I had learned the hard way.
When I arrived, Violet was awake.
She looked smaller than she had before.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Like some part of her had become cautious about taking up space.
I sat beside her.
“How are you feeling?”
She shrugged.
Then winced.
“Like I lost a fight with a truck.”
A tiny smile crossed my face.
“There she is.”
She looked down.
“Dad.”
“Yeah?”
“I need to tell you everything.”
I waited.
“No more protecting me.”
She looked confused.
“I was protecting you.”
“I know.”
The answer surprised her.
“That is what scares me.”
Her eyes filled.
“I don't want you to become someone I can't recognize.”
The words landed harder than anything else had.
Because that was the fear I had been avoiding.
Not finding the people responsible.
Not getting justice.
Losing myself while doing it.
Violet looked at me.
“Emma wasn't supposed to hurt me.”
I stayed quiet.
“She was scared.”
“Of what?”
She looked toward the window.
“Her brother.”
I froze.
“Brother?”
She nodded.
“Daniel.”
The name connected.
The gambling debts.
The money.
The pressure.
“Emma has been trying to protect him.”
Violet whispered.
“She thought if she helped them get what they wanted, they would leave him alone.”
I looked at my daughter.
“And what did they want from me?”
Her eyes moved back to mine.
“I don't know.”
A tear fell.
“But I know what they were looking for.”
“What?”
She swallowed.
“Your old mission files.”
“Your old mission files.”
I stayed quiet because sometimes silence was the only way to keep someone from taking back the words they had finally managed to say.
Violet watched my face.
She was looking for anger.
May you like
She was looking for disappointment.
She was looking for some sign that she had made another mistake.
