Saturday, I drove to the brick building with my hands locked on the wheel. She stood near the entrance, shoulders tight, scanning the street like prey.
When she saw me, her face went blank with shock, then cracked. “You look like my face,” she said.
“And you have his eyes,” I answered, voice shaking. I lifted my hand, hovering, and she nodded once. My palm touched her cheek—warm, real—and she sucked in a breath like she’d been holding it since kindergarten.
We sat in my car with the windows cracked because she said closed spaces made her panic.
She handed me a folder. “I stole copies from Evelyn’s safe.”
Inside were name-change papers, fake custody documents, and bank transfers with Frank’s name. There was also a blurry photo of him in a cap, alive.
“Not this one.”
“I buried him,” I whispered.
“She told me he died, too,” Catherine said, “but I remember suits, paperwork, and her practicing tears in the mirror.” She looked down at her hands. “He signed her out at school, saying there was an emergency. He left me with her and disappeared for good.”
“We’re going to the police.”
“Evelyn has money,” she warned. “She makes problems disappear.”
I squeezed her hand. “Not this one.”
At the station, a detective listened, face tight. Another officer hovered, skeptical, like we were selling a story.
“We need more proof to move on a wealthy suspect.”
Catherine’s voice shook as she described the playground. “He walked me to the car like it was normal. He told me you didn’t want me.”
I leaned in. “I wanted you every second,” I said, and her throat bobbed.
The detective sighed. “We need more proof to move on a wealthy suspect.”
I snapped, “Then help us get it.”
He gave me a look that said I was difficult, and I didn’t care.
That night, Catherine got a text from an unknown number: COME HOME. WE NEED TO TALK.
Her face drained. “Evelyn never texts. She hates records.”
My pulse hammered. “We don’t go alone.”
