Chapter 2: The Detective Who Lied
For several seconds, I couldn't feel my hands.
Detective Sullivan sat at Maya's desk, tapping one finger against the wood while the other hand held his phone.
I remembered him standing on my porch two years earlier in a charcoal suit, rain shining on his shoulders.
I remembered his sympathetic expression.
His careful words.
Your husband lost control of the vehicle. There is no evidence of foul play.
I had believed him because I had needed to believe someone.
Now he was sitting in my daughter's bedroom, discussing Daniel as if his death were a problem that needed to remain buried.
“She's asking questions,” Sullivan said into the phone.
“The neighbor has seen her coming home. We need to tighten this up.””
He paused.
“No, I haven't told the girl anything. She knows enough already.””
My heart hammered so hard I was afraid the bed frame would vibrate.
The girl.
Maya.
What did my daughter know?
Sullivan stood and crossed the room. His boots stopped beside the wardrobe.
I pressed my face against the carpet.
He opened the wardrobe door.
Hangers rattled.
Then he said, “Where did you put it, Maya?””
Silence.
He opened a drawer, rummaged through folded clothes, and slammed it shut.
“You have until Monday,” he muttered.
“After that, I can't protect you.””
He returned to the desk and picked up something small.
A silver flash drive.
I recognized it immediately.
Maya had been carrying that drive on a chain around her neck for weeks. When I asked what it was, she had said it contained school projects.
Sullivan slipped it into his jacket pocket.
Then he walked out.
I heard his footsteps descend the stairs, followed by the front door closing.
I remained beneath the bed until the silence became unbearable.
Only then did I crawl out, my knees shaking so badly that I had to grip the mattress.
My first instinct was to call the police.
My second was to remember that the man who had just entered my home was a detective.
I couldn't call a station and ask whether Detective Sullivan was dangerous. If he controlled the investigation into Daniel's death, he might have friends who would warn him.
I needed someone I could trust.
I thought of Mrs. Patterson.
Then I thought of Maya.
Where was my daughter?
She had left for school, hadn't she?
I checked the time. It was 10:06 a.m.
I grabbed my phone and called her school.
A receptionist answered.
“Good morning, Westbrook Middle School.””
“Hi, this is Renee Holloway. I'm Maya Holloway's mother. Could you tell me whether she's in class?””
“One moment, please.””
I gripped the edge of the desk.
After a brief hold, the receptionist returned.
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Holloway. Maya was marked absent this morning.””
The room seemed to tilt.
“Absent?””
“Yes. We haven't received an explanation.””
I thanked her mechanically and hung up.
Then I called Maya.
Straight to voicemail.
I sent a text.
Honey, call me as soon as you get this. I love you.
No reply.
I searched her room again, this time with trembling hands.
The drawers were full of clothes. Her schoolbooks were stacked neatly. Her backpack was gone, but the small canvas bag she usually carried on weekends was missing too.
I checked the wardrobe.
Behind a row of sweatshirts, I found an old shoebox pushed against the wall.
Inside were dozens of folded papers, a disposable camera, and several photographs.
The first photograph showed Daniel standing outside a brick building, wearing the navy coat I had buried him in.
The second showed him shaking hands with Detective Sullivan.
The third made me sit down on the floor.
It was a photograph of Daniel standing beside a black sedan in a parking garage. Sullivan was behind him, one hand gripping his shoulder.
Daniel wasn't smiling.
Someone had written a date on the back.
Three days before his death.
I stared at the picture until the numbers blurred.
My phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number appeared on the screen.
*UNKNOWN NUMBER: Stop searching Maya's room.*
A second message followed.
*UNKNOWN NUMBER: You have no idea what you're getting involved in.*
I stepped away from the window, suddenly aware that someone might be watching the house.
Then my phone rang.
Mrs. Patterson.
“Renee?”” she whispered.
“Are you home?””
“Yes. What's wrong?””
“I saw the detective's car outside your house.””
My stomach tightened.
“Detective Sullivan?””
“Yes. He just drove past again, but he didn't stop this time.””
I looked toward the front window.
“Mrs. Patterson, I need you to listen carefully. If you see anyone near my house, don't approach them. Call me.””
“Renee, what is going on?””
“I don't know yet.””
That was the truth.
I didn't know why Sullivan had taken the flash drive, why Maya had been skipping school, or why someone was warning me to stop searching.
But I knew one thing.
My daughter was in danger.
I drove to Westbrook Middle School and parked across the street. When students poured out during lunch, I scanned every face.
Maya wasn't among them.
I spoke to the office again and learned that she had been absent the previous day too.
Two days.
My daughter had been lying to me for at least forty-eight hours.
I drove home, fighting the urge to speed.
When I entered the house, I found the kitchen window open.
I was certain I had closed it before leaving.
On the counter sat a white envelope.
My name was written across the front in Daniel's handwriting.
For a moment, the room stopped existing around me.
I knew that handwriting. I had watched it fill birthday cards, grocery lists, and notes he left beside my coffee mug.
I opened the envelope with shaking fingers.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Renee,
If you are reading this, Sullivan has found out that Maya kept the original.
I know you think I died because of the crash. I need you to understand that the crash was only the beginning.
Trust no one who tells you the investigation is closed.
Especially not the man who gave you my wedding ring.
My fingers went numb.
The detective had returned Daniel's wedding ring to me at the funeral.
He had placed it in my palm and said, “I'm sorry, Mrs. Holloway. This is all we recovered.””
I had worn that ring on a chain beneath my blouse ever since.
I reached for it now.
The chain was still around my neck.
But the ring was gone.
I tore through my purse, searched the bathroom counter, and checked the bedside table.
Nothing.
Then I remembered something else.
Maya had asked to borrow the ring three weeks earlier.
She'd said she wanted to take a picture of it for a school project about family history.
I had given it to her without a second thought.
Now I understood why Sullivan had searched her wardrobe.
He wasn't looking for a school assignment.
He was looking for the ring.
I returned to the kitchen and examined Daniel's letter again.
At the bottom, in handwriting so faint I almost missed it, was a final line.
The truth is inside the ring.
A sound came from upstairs.
A floorboard creaked.
I froze.
“Maya?”” I called.
No answer.
I took the kitchen knife from the counter and slowly climbed the stairs.
Her bedroom door was open.
The room was empty.
But the wardrobe stood ajar, and a strip of white paper protruded from beneath her pillow.
I pulled it free.
It was a torn page from a notebook.
Three words were written across it in Maya's handwriting.
*HE IS MY FATHER.*
I stared at the page.
Daniel was her father.
Unless she meant someone else.
Someone who had been coming into our house while I was at work.
Someone who had taken her silver flash drive.
Someone who knew exactly what had happened to my husband.
My phone rang again.
This time, the caller ID showed Maya's name.
I answered so quickly I nearly dropped it.
“Maya? Baby, where are you?””
Her breathing was ragged.
“Mom, you have to listen to me.””
“Tell me where you are. I'm coming to get you.””
“No. You can't come here.””
“Why not?””
“Because Sullivan is looking for me. He knows about the ring.””
I closed my eyes.
“Maya, what is inside it?””
A long silence followed.
Then she whispered, “Dad didn't die in that crash.””
I pressed the phone harder against my ear.
“What are you saying?””
“I saw him, Mom.””
My knees weakened.
“Where?””
“Two months ago. At the old railway station.””
I gripped the banister.
“That isn't possible.””
“I know what I saw.””
“Maya, why didn't you tell me?””
“Because he told me not to.””
I couldn't speak.
Then my daughter said something that made the entire world shift beneath my feet.
“He said if I told you he was alive, Sullivan would kill him for real.””
The call crackled.
“Maya?””
“Mom, listen. There's something else you need to know about Dad—”
A loud crash erupted through the phone.
May you like
Maya screamed.
Then the line went dead.
