Chương 6
"Who told you that name?"
"Answer the question."
He sighed.
"Seventeen years old."
"Seventeen?"
"Yes."
"Why was he involved with my daughter?"
"That's what we are trying to determine."
"Try harder."
His jaw tightened.
For the first time, I saw irritation.
Not from disrespect.
From pressure.
"I understand what happened to your daughter feels personal."
"It is personal."
"I understand."
"No."
The word came out sharper than I intended.
"You don't."
The room went quiet.
Mercer looked down briefly.
When he spoke again, his voice was calmer.
"No, I don't."
That surprised me.
Most people defend themselves when challenged.
He didn't.
"I have a daughter," he said.
I looked at him.
"She's twelve."
The anger in my chest shifted slightly.
Not disappeared.
Just changed.
"Then you understand."
"I understand wanting someone to pay."
He paused.
"But wanting someone to pay and proving who deserves it are different things."
I looked away.
Because I knew he was right.
And because I hated that he was right.
"What happened to Sarah Harper?" he asked.
The question landed harder than expected.
"You know about my wife?"
"I read the family records."
"Why?"
"Because when your daughter mentions someone connected to your wife's death, I look into it."
I studied him.
"Did you find something?"
"Not yet."
The words should have disappointed me.
Instead, they confirmed something.
The investigation had changed.
"What does Ethan know?"
Mercer rubbed his forehead.
"We don't know if he knows anything."
"Then why is his name appearing?"
"Because teenagers talk."
"That's not enough."
"No."
He looked toward the notebook.
"But it is enough to look closer."
A sound came from the counter.
My phone.
Another unknown number.
This time Mercer saw it before I picked it up.
"Don't answer."
I looked at him.
"Why?"
"Because whoever is calling knows your number."
"That isn't unusual."
"Your number isn't public."
I froze.
He was right.
Only a small number of people had my personal number.
Family.
Close friends.
Military contacts.
A few old colleagues.
"Let it go to voicemail."
I watched the screen until the call stopped.
A few seconds later, a notification appeared.
New voicemail.
Mercer looked at me.
"Play it."
I pressed the button.
Static filled the kitchen.
Then a voice.
Young.
Male.
Quiet.
"Mr. Harper, I don't know if Violet will remember everything."
My body went rigid.
"She was trying to help someone."
A pause.
"I tried to stop her."
Another pause.
The voice became strained.
"I should have told you before."
Mercer leaned closer.
Then the speaker continued.
"Ethan isn't the person you should be looking at."
The message ended.
Neither of us spoke.
The silence afterward felt heavier than the recording.
Mercer reached for the phone.
"Can I get a copy?"
I handed it to him.
"Who was that?"
"I don't know."
"You have no idea?"
"No."
He listened again.
His face changed slightly.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Tell me."
He looked at the screen.
"The voice was disguised."
I stared at him.
"What?"
"Not with technology."
"Then how?"
"Distance."
He played it one more time.
"They were trying not to be recognized."
I thought about the sentence.
Ethan isn't the person you should be looking at.
A warning.
Or a trap.
The difference was everything.
I looked toward Violet's room.
My daughter had tried to uncover something about her mother's death.
Someone had attacked her.
Someone had taken her phone.
Someone was now trying to guide my investigation.
And I had no idea whether they were trying to help me or lead me somewhere.
Mercer put my phone down.
"There is something else."
I waited.
"The hospital called."
My stomach tightened.
"Why?"
He looked at me.
"They found something on Violet's clothing."
The room seemed to tilt.
"What?"
"A piece of fabric."
"From who?"
"We don't know."
He paused.
"But the lab found something else."
"What?"
Mercer looked at the notebook on the counter.
Then back at me.
"Violet wasn't attacked where you found her."
I felt the air leave my lungs.
"What are you saying?"
He lowered his voice.
"She was moved."
I stared at Mercer.
For a moment, the words did not connect.
Moved.
Not attacked.
Moved.
The difference was small enough to fit between two words, but it changed everything.
"Where?"
"We don't know yet."
"Then how do you know?"
"Because of the blood pattern."
I looked toward the hallway.
The place where I found my daughter.
The place where my mind had replayed itself over and over since yesterday.
"I saw her there."
"You saw her after she was placed there."
The correction felt like a blade.
I walked to the counter and gripped the edge.
"Who moved her?"
"We don't know."
"Who could have?"
"We don't know."
I turned toward him.
"Stop saying that."
His expression tightened.
"I know what you want."
"I want the person who hurt my daughter."
"So do I."
"No."
The word came out quietly.
That made it more dangerous.
"You want the case solved."
Mercer held my stare.
"I want the right person held responsible."
The answer should have satisfied me.
It didn't.
Because I knew something he did not.
Or maybe something he suspected but could not say.
The person who hurt Violet had not just entered my house.
They had known the house.
They had known her.
They had known exactly where to leave her.
A stranger destroys things.
Someone close enough to move a body understands what matters.
The hospital called again before either of us spoke.
Mercer answered this time.
"Detective Mercer."
He listened.
His eyes moved to me.
"Understood."
He ended the call.
"What?"
"The fabric found on Violet came from a jacket."
"Whose jacket?"
"They don't know."
"Then why tell me?"
"Because it wasn't random."
He took out his phone.
"Your daughter had fibers on her sleeve."
"From grabbing someone?"
"Possibly."
"Or?"
He hesitated.
"Or from trying to hold onto someone."
That thought hurt in a different way.
Violet was not just attacked.
She fought.
May you like
She tried to survive.
I hated that she had to.
