CHAPTER 6
The name Maria Santos led us to Arizona.
Rachel’s investigator found her outside Tucson.
She was fifty-one.
She had worked for Victoria’s first husband, Andrew Cole, almost eleven years earlier.
And she refused to speak on the phone.
So Detective Blake flew to Arizona.
Two days later, he called me.
“You need to come to the station.”
I left Lily with my sister Emma.
Emma had flown from Boston the morning after she heard what happened.
Unlike everyone else, she did not ask questions when she arrived.
She simply hugged Lily and told me, “Go do what you need to do.”
At the station, Blake placed a file in front of me.
“Maria worked for Andrew Cole for eighteen months.”
“Victoria’s first husband.”
“Yes.”
“And he had a daughter?”
“Sophie.”
I swallowed.
“What happened to her?”
“She lives with her biological mother in Colorado.”
Relief rushed through me.
“She’s safe?”
“She’s nineteen now.”
I leaned back.
“So what does Maria have to do with Victoria?”
Blake opened the folder.
“There were allegations.”
Of course there were.
“What kind?”
“Maria suspected Victoria was mistreating Sophie during Andrew’s custody periods.”
My jaw tightened.
“How old?”
“Five.”
Exactly Lily’s age now.
“What happened?”
“Maria confronted Andrew.”
“And?”
“He fired her.”
“Why?”
“He said Victoria told him Maria had become obsessed with the child.”
The pattern was so familiar I wanted to punch the wall.
“Did Maria take pictures?”
“No. She did something better.”
Blake slid a small digital recorder across the table.
“She recorded Victoria.”
My heart started pounding.
“Can I hear it?”
He pressed play.
At first there was background noise.
A television.
A cabinet shutting.
Then a child crying.
A younger Victoria spoke.
Why do you keep making me angry?
A little girl answered.
I want Mommy.
You’re here with us.
I don’t like you.
A slap.
I knew the sound immediately.
My body went cold.
Then Maria’s voice appeared.
Stop!
Victoria shouted something.
The recording became chaotic.
Maria was ordering Sophie to go upstairs.
Victoria accused Maria of interfering.
Then Andrew walked in.
The recording ended.
I stared at the recorder.
“He heard this?”
“Apparently not.”
“Why?”
“Maria says Victoria took the recorder. Maria believed it was destroyed.”
“But this one—”
“Maria made a backup.”
I closed my eyes.
“Why didn’t anyone know?”
“Maria was undocumented at the time. Victoria threatened to report her.”
Again.
Different woman.
Same method.
“What happened to Sophie?”
“Maria contacted Sophie’s mother anonymously. Shortly afterward, custody arrangements changed. Andrew stopped bringing Sophie around Victoria.”
“Did he know?”
“We don’t know.”
I thought about Andrew’s later death.
“His boating accident?”
Blake immediately understood.
“We reviewed it.”
“And?”
“No evidence of foul play.”
I nodded.
I didn’t want to turn every tragedy into Victoria’s crime.
There was already enough truth.
Rachel joined us.
She carried another stack of documents.
“We figured out Coastal Family Consulting.”
“What is it?”
“A private reputation-management firm.”
“For what?”
“Suppressing online records. Locating people. Sending legal threats.”
“Michael.”
“Possibly.”
“Rosa?”
“Definitely.”
She showed me an invoice.
Background investigation: R. Alvarez.
Then another.
M. Hale location monitoring.
I stared.
“She knew where Michael was.”
“She may have known for years.”
I called him immediately.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
By evening, I was panicking.
Rachel contacted Oregon police.
An officer went to Michael’s house.
He was gone.
His truck was missing.
No sign of violence.
His phone went directly to voicemail.
I barely slept.
At six the next morning, Michael finally called.
“Why are police at my house?”
“Where are you?”
“Fishing.”
I almost shouted.
“You disappeared!”
“I go offshore sometimes.”
“You could have told someone.”
“I wasn’t aware I had acquired a billionaire babysitter.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
Then I told him about Coastal Family Consulting.
He went silent.
“She found me?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“We don’t know.”
Michael exhaled.
“I moved three times because letters started appearing.”
“What letters?”
“Blank envelopes.”
“Why didn’t you tell police?”
“Because police told me I was imagining things when I was ten.”
The sentence stopped me.
Trauma did not care how many years had passed.
I understood that better every day.
“Come to California,” I said.
“No.”
“Michael.”
“I don’t want to see her.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I don’t want to see my mother either.”
“You don’t have to.”
Silence.
Then I said, “Lily drew a picture yesterday.”
He didn’t respond.
“She drew everyone who makes her feel safe.”
“Daniel—”
“She drew me. My sister. Rosa. Dr. Brooks.”
I paused.
“And she drew a man standing near a boat.”
Michael became completely silent.
“She’s never met you,” I said. “I told her you were someone who helped me understand that she was telling the truth.”
“That was enough for her?”
“She’s four.”
His voice changed.
“What did she draw me doing?”
“Holding an umbrella.”
“Why?”
“I asked her. She said, ‘So the rain doesn’t get me.’”
A long silence followed.
Then Michael whispered something I could barely hear.
“No one held one for me.”
“I know.”
Another silence.
Finally:
“I’ll come.”
Michael arrived the next evening.
I met him at a private terminal.
He was tall.
Lean.
Dark-haired.
And the second I saw his hands, I knew.
Faint scars crossed both of them.
He noticed me looking.
“She liked hot water,” he said.
I swallowed.
“I’m sorry.”
He looked directly at me.
“Stop saying that.”
Then he picked up his bag.
“Show me everything you have.”
That night Michael sat in my office and watched the kitchen security footage.
He did not cry.
He did not speak.
But when Victoria’s voice ordered Lily to put her hands back in the water, Michael reached forward and stopped the video.
His face had gone white.
“That sentence.”
“What?”
“She said the same thing to me.”
I stared.
Michael looked at the frozen image of his sister.
“She didn’t just repeat the punishment.”
May you like
His eyes moved to mine.
“She repeated the words.”
