We moved temporarily into Danielle's house.
The children stopped attending school in person.
Our house became a crime scene.
Agents searched Oliver's belongings.
His computer.
His car.
A storage unit rented under another name.
Inside the unit, they found copies of my mortgage records.
Photographs of Rachel.
Maps.
Information about the twins.
And photographs of me taken months before I met Oliver.
That discovery destroyed the final lie I'd been clinging to.
Our meeting had not been accidental.
I had met Oliver at a fundraiser for the children's hospital.
He spilled coffee near my table.
We laughed.
He bought me another.
For almost two years, I had remembered that moment as fate.
Now Detective Morales placed a surveillance photograph on the table.
It showed me leaving work.
The date?
Three weeks before the fundraiser.
Another showed Harry's school.
Another showed Emma and Lily leaving dance lessons.
Daniel had studied us first.
Then chosen the perfect entrance.
I went to the bathroom and vomited.
Four days later, Harry disappeared.
I nearly lost my mind.
He had been upstairs at Danielle's house.
Then he wasn't.
His phone remained on the bed.
The back door stood open.
Police arrived within minutes.
I screamed his name until my voice failed.
Forty-three minutes later, Detective Morales got a call.
Harry had walked into a police station six miles away.
Alive.
Uninjured.
Furious.
When they brought him back, I slapped him.
It was the first time I had ever hit my son.
His eyes widened.
Then I grabbed him and sobbed against his chest.
“What were you thinking?”
“I found him.”
Every person in the room froze.
“What?”
“Oliver.”
“Where?”
“He messaged me.”
My blood turned cold.
Harry had created a new email account and contacted Daniel.
He told him he had found Rachel's flash drives.
“Harry!”
“I lied.”
Daniel replied.
He told Harry to meet him alone.
Instead, Harry forwarded the location to police and walked to a station.
Morales stared at him.
“You could have gotten yourself killed.”
“I wanted him caught.”
“So does everyone in this room.”
“He hurt my mom.”
Harry's voice cracked.
“He used Emma and Lily.
Maybe he killed Aunt Rachel.”
I grabbed his shoulders.
“That is not your burden.”
“He made it my burden when he came into our house.”
I couldn't argue.
Because some part of him was right.
Daniel never arrived at the meeting location.
But the message came from a device investigators traced.
Not to Daniel.
To Sarah.
She was arrested twelve hours later at a motel outside Louisville.
Sarah refused to speak for three days.
Then she asked for me.
Detective Morales said no.
I insisted.
We met through reinforced glass.
Without pearls, makeup, and carefully styled hair, Sarah looked smaller.
Older.
But not remorseful.
She picked up the phone.
“So.”
Her voice carried the same calm tone she'd used while helping me choose wedding flowers.
“You found Rachel's box.”
My skin prickled.
“You knew my sister.”
“Briefly.”
“Did you kill her?”
Sarah smiled faintly.
“Direct.
I always underestimated that about you.”
“Answer me.”
“No.”
“Did Daniel?”
Her expression changed.
Not enough.
But I saw it.
Fear.
“Daniel is many things.”
“Did he kill Rachel?”
“Ask him.”
“He's hiding.”
Sarah laughed softly.
“Daniel doesn't hide.”
“What does he do?”
“He waits.”
I refused to show fear.
“Why target me?”
“Because Rachel took something.”
“The evidence?”
Sarah leaned toward the glass.
“No.”
My heart beat harder.
“Then what?”
“Your sister was clever, Sharon.
Cleverer than we realized.”
“What did she take?”
Sarah studied me.
Then smiled.
“You still don't know.”
“Know what?”
“You think those flash drives matter?”
“They're enough to put you in prison.”
“Perhaps.”
She lowered her voice.
“But Daniel didn't spend two years pretending to love you for flash drives.”
My mouth went dry.
“What did he want?”
“The key.”
“We found the bank key.”
Sarah's eyes glittered.
“Not that key.”
I stared at her.
“What key?”
