Chương 3
“Client. Evelyn Hartwell.”
Sarah knew the name. Mrs. Hartwell sent expensive pears to the office every Christmas and wrote thank-you cards in blue ink. She had once told Sarah at a company picnic that Arthur had saved her after her husband died.
David’s fingers curled beneath Sarah’s palm.
“Arthur knew I copied the transfer logs,” he said.
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you take them?”
“Not the originals. I—” His eyes drifted. “He made coffee.”
Dr. Singh stepped closer from the other side of the bed. “Mr. Anderson, stay with us.”
David blinked.
“Your father had the girls,” he said.
“I know.”
“He said Eleanor would keep them upstairs. He said we’d talk for five minutes.”
“What did he do?”
David’s throat worked.
“He hit me. I fell. Then the car was running.”
Sarah looked at Dr. Singh.
The physician’s expression remained controlled, but he reached toward the oxygen reading.
David caught Sarah’s sleeve with surprising strength.
“He put me in the back seat,” he said. “He said nobody would question it. Depressed employee. Stolen files. Kids in the storm.”
“David—”
“He wanted it to look like I took them.”
A nurse entered, drawn by the monitor.
David’s grip tightened.
“Don’t let him near them.”
“I won’t.”
“You always let him—”
The nurse touched his shoulder. “Mr. Anderson, you need to rest.”
His eyes stayed on Sarah.
“You always let him explain.”
The words were not loud. They did not need to be.
Sarah stood beside the bed as the medication entered his IV and his grip weakened around her sleeve. She wanted to tell him that this was unfair, that she had not known, that he had hidden things too, that her father had spent thirty-four years teaching her to confuse obedience with judgment.
Instead she said, “I’m sorry.”
David’s eyes closed before she could tell whether he heard.
In the corridor, Mercer waited with a small notebook open.
Sarah gave him her phone.
She watched him place it into a clean evidence pouch, seal the strip, and write the time across it. The action was methodical, almost gentle. Her mother’s call log, her text thanking Arthur, David’s unanswered messages from earlier that week—everything vanished behind clear plastic.
“Will I get it back?”
“Yes, though we may need time to copy relevant material.”
“My daughters’ school will call that number.”
“We can help you contact them.”
“My boss too.”
“Do you have someone who can bring you another phone?”
Sarah thought of her younger brother, Matthew, then remembered he was in Singapore for work. She thought of three women she knew from the rehabilitation center, none of whom had met her parents more than twice. She thought of neighbors, other dance mothers, people who had attended her wedding under white lights Arthur had insisted on upgrading because the venue package looked cheap.
She could not think of one person she wanted to call.
“My husband’s phone,” she said. “Was it found?”
Mercer studied her face before answering.
“It was in the garage. Damaged, but recovered.”
“And his laptop?”
“We’re still locating property.”
“My father has people at the firm who will destroy records.”
“We’re moving quickly.”
“That means you don’t have a warrant yet.”
“That means I can’t discuss every investigative step.”
Sarah looked down the corridor toward the elevators.
“My father is going to come here.”
“Has he contacted you?”
“No. But he will.”
Mercer closed his notebook. “If he does, don’t meet him alone.”
“You think he’ll hurt me?”
“I think your daughters were found in severe weather near his property, your husband was found injured in his garage, and he gave statements that conflict with physical evidence and your daughter’s account. I don’t want you making assumptions about what he will or won’t do.”
“My father doesn’t lose control in public.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
The elevator doors opened.
Arthur Vance stepped out with Sarah’s mother on one side and an attorney named Philip Crane on the other.
Arthur still wore the dark wool overcoat Sarah had given him two Christmases earlier. Snow gleamed along the shoulders. His silver hair was damp but perfectly combed, and a small cut marked the edge of his jaw. Eleanor wore a camel-colored coat over a black dress, her hands bare despite the cold. Her lipstick had worn away at the center.
Philip Crane carried a leather portfolio and looked irritated by the existence of hallways.
Arthur saw Sarah and opened his arms.
“Thank God.”
Mercer moved between them before Sarah had decided whether to step forward.
“Mr. Vance, you were asked to remain available at your residence.”
“My granddaughters are in the hospital.”
“Your residence is still being processed.”
Arthur’s expression sharpened. “Without a warrant?”
Crane placed a hand near his elbow. “Arthur.”
“Sarah,” Eleanor said.
Her voice cracked on the first syllable.
Sarah stared at her mother’s hands.
Maisie had said Grandma put the key inside. Then she locked us out.
There was a faint red mark across Eleanor’s left palm.
“What happened to your hand?” Sarah asked.
Eleanor looked down as though noticing it for the first time. “I cut it cooking.”
“You don’t cook.”
Arthur exhaled. “This is not the time.”
Sarah turned toward him.
“Why did you report the records-room key stolen before the paramedics opened Maisie’s purse?”
Crane’s hand tightened on Arthur’s sleeve.
Arthur’s face did not change immediately. The delay was small, but Sarah saw it. She had spent her life watching him decide which version of his emotions other people were allowed to receive.
“What are you talking about?”
“The brass key. With your tag.”
“I reported a missing key from my office.”
“It was in Maisie’s purse.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Is it?”
Eleanor looked toward the floor.
Arthur’s gaze flicked to her, then returned to Sarah.
“David must have put it there.”
“Maisie says Mom did.”
May you like
The corridor seemed to narrow.
A family emerged from another room behind them, speaking softly, then fell silent when they saw the uniforms. A nurse pushed a linen cart between the two groups, apologizing although no one was blocking her path.
