Chapter 3 - A Name That Wasn't in the Family
“Daniel Vale,” Ortiz said when we were alone again.
“Who is he?”
“A civilian contractor assigned to a joint audit team.”
“Assigned by whom?”
“The Army's Criminal Investigation Division.”
I stared at her.
“So the person Emily warned us about worked with the people protecting her?”
“We don't know that he's guilty.”
“Then why did you react like that?”
Ortiz rubbed her forehead.
“Because Daniel Vale was the one who told us Emily's evidence was compromised.”
She explained that five days earlier, Vale had reported an internal leak.
He said documents from Whitmore Defense Logistics had been altered before reaching investigators.
According to Vale, Emily might have become an unreliable witness.
And according to a second report, Emily had been behaving erratically.
It was the language Richard had repeated in the hallway.
Not a coincidence.
A script.
“Where is Vale now?”
“Officially on administrative leave.”
“Unofficially?”
“We've lost contact with him.”
My phone buzzed.
A message from an unfamiliar number contained one photograph.
Our kitchen.
The blue recipe binder lay open beside the sink.
Under it was a sentence.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LISTENED WHEN SHE ASKED YOU TO COME HOME.
I showed Ortiz without replying.
She immediately dispatched another unit to the house.
The message contained no demands, only blame.
That made it feel personal.
I had been accused in combat, cursed by strangers, and threatened by people who meant it.
But there was something distinctly cruel about a person who knew exactly where guilt already lived.
At midnight, a hospital administrator finally confirmed the access restriction had been lifted.
Richard protested until the agent at his elbow reminded him he was no longer free to wander into patient rooms.
The brothers were being interviewed separately.
Their identical accounts had begun to unravel.
One claimed Emily had fallen down a staircase at the family estate.
Another said she had collapsed in a warehouse.
A third admitted seeing her at a company office after midnight.
None could explain why her blood had been found in a company vehicle.
It was progress, but not justice.
Not yet.
I returned to Emily's bedside and told her about the lemon tree.
I told her I'd finally realized it was a message.
She couldn't respond, but her pulse remained steady on the monitor.
I described the first time we met at a roadside coffee shop outside Fayetteville.
She'd corrected my pronunciation of a pastry, then ordered it for me anyway.
She hadn't cared about my unit or ribbons.
She cared whether I called my parents, whether I finished books, and whether I knew how to say I was afraid.
I hadn't known the answer to that last question then.
I knew it now.
“I'm afraid, Em,” I whispered.
“Not of them.”
Her hand was warm under mine.
“I'm afraid I won't get the chance to tell you everything I should have told you.”
The monitor continued its quiet rhythm.
Then my phone rang again.
This time the caller had blocked the number.
I answered and said nothing.
A man's voice came through a burst of static.
“Sergeant Cole, if Ortiz is standing next to you, hang up.”
“Who is this?”
“Someone who doesn't want your wife buried beside a lie.”
My throat tightened.
“Daniel Vale?”
A pause.
“Emily told me you'd recognize a trap.”
“Where is she keeping the evidence?”
“You're asking the wrong question.”
“Then give me the right one.”
“Ask who signed Owen Mercer's death certificate.”
The connection ended.
I turned to the chart by Emily's bed, then to the dark hospital window.
Someone had just used a dead boy's name to turn me away from the obvious suspects.
May you like
And the worst possibility was that the voice had told me the truth.
