Chương 4
Emma thought longer this time.
“Your black folder.”
I stopped.
“What black folder?”
“The one you keep by the phone.”
I knew exactly what she meant.
A slim leather document folio lived in the kitchen drawer beneath the charging station.
I kept copies of Elena’s death certificate there, along with insurance paperwork, guardianship documents, Emma’s medical authorization forms, and a few things I never wanted to search for in a hurry.
“Did she leave with it?”
“No.”
“She had it outside?”
Emma shook her head.
“I saw it when she was closing the door.”
“Where was it?”
“Under her clipboard.”
The phone in my pocket vibrated.
I ignored it.
“Did you see what she did with the folder?”
“No.”
“Did she take it back inside?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she close the door?”
“Yes.”
“And lock it?”
Emma gave me another irritated look.
“I couldn’t see the lock from outside.”
“Right.”
I rubbed my face.
“Sorry.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Why would she take your folder?”
“I don’t know.”
That answer was becoming a habit.
I stood.
Emma reached for my wrist.
“Don’t go.”
“I’m just calling Captain Reeves.”
“Here.”
It was not a request.
I sat again.
Then I called Reeves on speaker but held the phone close enough that Emma would not have to hear everything if I could avoid it.
He answered with, “I was about to call you.”
“Emma says Diana entered the house.”
Silence.
“Can she say that for sure?”
“She says Diana went toward the door after Emma told her medication was inside.”
“That’s not enough.”
“I know.”
“She see her cross the threshold?”
“No.”
“Anything else?”
“She saw my black document folder under Diana’s clipboard when Diana came back toward the porch.”
Reeves knew the folder.
He had been sitting at our kitchen table when I put Elena’s death certificate in it after the funeral home gave me the certified copies.
His voice dropped.
“Is that folder supposed to be in the kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“What’s in it?”
“Family records.”
“What kind?”
I looked at Emma.
She was tracing a finger along the edge of her blanket.
“Stuff related to Elena.”
Reeves understood the rest without me saying it.
“Okay.”
“I want the house processed before I go back.”
“It already is.”
I sat straighter.
“What?”
“After you sent the photo, I called county crime scene.”
“Good.”
“They found the kitchen drawer open.”
I closed my eyes.
“What else?”
“The folder is gone.”
Emma’s hand stopped moving.
I took the phone off speaker.
“Stay with me here, Reeves.”
“I am.”
“No guesses.”
“No guesses.”
“Any sign of forced entry?”
“None.”
“Camera footage?”
“We’ve got Gable’s doorbell video.”
“What does it show?”
“Diana walking up your driveway at two thirty-eight.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
“She disappears out of frame on the side of your garage.”
“The gate.”
“Probably.”
“Wes?”
“Arrives at two forty-three.”
“Five minutes later.”
“Yeah.”
“Does he enter the house?”
“Not from what we can see.”
“Does Diana?”
“Camera angle misses your front steps.”
I hated my porch architecture for the first time in my life.
“What about my doorbell camera?”
“You know the answer.”
The battery had been dead for eleven days.
I had noticed the notification and dismissed it every morning.
One more thing I would charge later.
One more ordinary failure that had waited patiently for the worst possible day.
“Any prints?”
“Too early.”
“Don’t tell me too early.”
“Robert.”
I got up and walked to the far corner of the room.
“Fine.”
“We found something else.”
“What?”
“There’s a violation envelope on your kitchen counter.”
“I didn’t leave one there.”
“I know.”
“What does it say?”
“Exterior property obstruction.”
I almost laughed.
“Meaning?”
“The flowerpot.”
Emma looked over.
“The broken one?”
I nodded.
Reeves continued.
“It’s marked final notice.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“I never received a first notice.”
“That doesn’t mean one wasn’t issued.”
“It means I would have remembered it.”
“You remember every HOA letter?”
“I remember Diana’s.”
That was true.
She wrote like a substitute teacher who had discovered criminal law.
Every sentence included words like pursuant, compliance, remedial, and immediate.
The letters usually ended with a line informing me that failure to respond would constitute acknowledgment of the violation.
“Is it signed?”
“Yes.”
“By her?”
“Digitally.”
“Date?”
“Today.”
“Time?”
Reeves hesitated.
“Two twenty-nine.”
Nine minutes before the doorbell footage showed Diana arriving.
“Anything else?”
“The notice says the homeowner or occupant refused verbal correction.”
I looked at Emma.
She had been alone at two twenty-nine.
“So she created a final notice before speaking to anybody.”
“That’s how it looks.”
“Get the HOA records.”
“Already requested.”
“Requested?”
“I’m not letting you turn a clean investigation into something her attorney can challenge.”
I lowered my voice.
“She entered my house and took private documents.”
“Maybe.”
“She chained my daughter outside after refusing her medication.”
“Based on Emma’s statement, yes.”
“And she left with the evidence.”
“Maybe.”
“Stop saying maybe.”
“I’m going to keep saying maybe until I can prove things without needing you to believe them.”
The sentence hit where it needed to.
I hated him again.
That was probably why he was the right person.
“What did Wes say about the house?”
“He says he never saw her go in.”
“Does he deny helping with the chain?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“He admitted it?”
“He admitted bringing it over.”
“Why?”
“She told him she needed to secure a damaged fixture.”
“The fixture being my daughter?”
“He claims he didn’t know what she meant.”
“Until when?”
“Until she started wrapping it around Emma.”
“And then?”
“He told her it was wrong.”
“But he stayed.”
“Yes.”
“He let her finish.”
“Yes.”
I looked through the glass wall toward the nurses’ station.
A man in dusty work boots sat across the hall with an ice pack on his shoulder.
His wife was filling out paperwork while he tried to stop their toddler from eating a sticker.
Normal people having a normal bad day.
I envied them.
May you like
“Why didn’t Wes stop her?”
“He says Diana owes him fourteen thousand dollars.”
