Chapter 12: Patricia's Last Game
Emily wasn't at school.
She was safe at Mark's house with a police officer.
That was the only reason I could still think clearly.
The fake school call had been sent to multiple family contacts listed on an old emergency form.
Mark had received it.
So had Sarah.
So had Patricia.
Michael looked at the sign-out sheet the school administrator had photographed.
The name written there was mine.
Daniel Carter.
The signature looked almost perfect.
Sarah's gift to Patricia.
A copy of my handwriting.
“Who came inside?”” I asked.
The principal shook her head.
“A woman.””
“Patricia?””
“The receptionist isn't sure.””
“Security cameras?””
“We're pulling them.””
Detective Ruiz arrived minutes later.
The footage showed an older woman entering through the front office doors wearing sunglasses and a dark scarf.
Patricia.
She presented identification.
Not hers.
Mine.
Or rather, a forged authorization supposedly signed by me.
The receptionist had begun verifying it when Patricia apparently noticed something outside.
She abruptly left.
“Why?”” I asked.
Ruiz rewound the footage.
A patrol car had pulled into the parking lot.
Routine school-zone patrol.
Patricia saw it.
She ran.
My legs nearly gave out.
If that cruiser had arrived three minutes later—
I refused to finish the thought.
Ruiz's phone rang.
He stepped away.
When he returned, his expression had changed.
“We have a possible location.””
“Where?””
“A storage facility.””
Sarah had remembered Patricia renting a unit under her maiden name.
Officers were already there.
“I'm coming.””
“No.””
“Detective—”
“No, Mr. Carter.””
I stepped toward him.
“She tried to take my daughter.””
“And that is exactly why you stay away.””
Michael nodded.
“He's right.””
I hated both of them.
But I went back to Mark's.
Emily was building a blanket fort in the living room.
She looked up.
“Dad!””
I dropped beside her.
She hugged me.
“Uncle Mark says I don't have school.””
“Not today.””
“Can we have pancakes?””
“Absolutely.””
She studied my face.
“Are you sad?””
“No.””
She tilted her head.
“You do the eyebrow thing when you're sad.””
Despite everything, I laughed.
“What eyebrow thing?””
She copied my expression so perfectly that Mark laughed from the kitchen.
For ten minutes, we made pancakes.
Normal pancakes.
No court.
No evidence.
No Patricia.
Emily poured too much syrup on hers.
I let her.
Then my phone rang.
Ruiz.
I walked into the hallway.
“We found Patricia.””
My heart stopped.
“Is she in custody?””
“Yes.””
I closed my eyes.
The relief was immediate.
Then Ruiz added, “But you need to know what was inside the storage unit.””
“What?””
“Boxes of files. Old phones. cameras. Prescription containers.””
My stomach turned.
“How many?””
“We're still counting.””
“And Patricia?””
“She was attempting to destroy records when officers arrived.””
“Did she say anything?””
“Yes.””
“What?””
Ruiz hesitated.
“She asked whether Emily had testified yet.””
A chill moved through me.
“Why?””
“She wouldn't explain.””
I looked toward the living room.
Emily was laughing because Mark had flipped a pancake badly.
“What does she know that we don't?””
“We're working on that.””
Three hours later, Michael called.
Patricia had requested an attorney.
She was no longer talking.
But investigators had recovered something from the storage unit that directly concerned me.
A folder.
My name was written across the front.
Inside were photographs covering nearly two years of my life.
Me leaving work.
Me buying groceries.
Me picking Emily up from school.
Me eating dinner with my brother.
Me meeting Michael.
Someone had been documenting me long before Sarah filed for custody modification.
But one photograph made no sense.
It showed me entering a restaurant.
The date printed beneath it was from eighteen months earlier.
“Why does this matter?”” I asked.
Michael slid another photograph beside it.
Sarah entering the same restaurant twenty minutes later.
Then Patricia.
I stared at him.
“I wasn't meeting them.””
“I know.””
“I was there for a work dinner.””
“I know.””
Michael placed a document in front of me.
It was a draft statement.
Supposedly written by a restaurant employee.
It claimed I'd met Sarah secretly, threatened her, and told her I would “destroy her in court.””
“This never happened.””
“The statement was never filed.””
“Why not?””
“Apparently Patricia couldn't get anyone to sign it.””
I stared at the folder.
She had been constructing versions of reality.
Trying one.
Discarding it.
Trying another.
Then Michael removed one final item.
A photograph of Emily.
She looked younger.
Maybe six.
She was standing outside Sarah's house beside Patricia.
On the back, Patricia had written:
*Emily understands more than Sarah thinks. Must be careful.*
My skin prickled.
“What did Emily understand?””
“We don't know.””
That evening, Detective Ruiz came to Mark's house.
He wanted to ask Emily one final set of questions with Ms. Reynolds present.
I agreed.
We sat in the living room.
Ruiz kept his voice gentle.
“Emily, do you remember Grandma ever telling you not to talk about something you saw?””
Emily nodded.
“Lots.””
“Do you remember something from when you were six?””
Emily frowned.
“That's a long time ago.””
“I know.””
He showed her the photograph.
Emily stared at it.
Then her expression changed.
“Oh.””
I leaned forward.
“What?””
Ms. Reynolds raised a hand, reminding me to let Ruiz continue.
“What do you remember?”” he asked.
Emily pointed at Patricia's house behind them.
“The basement.””
My stomach tightened.
“What happened in the basement?””
“Grandma was talking to a lady.””
“What lady?””
Emily shrugged.
“A crying lady.””
Ruiz asked, “Do you know her name?””
Emily thought.
“Becca.””
Thomas's ex-wife.
Rebecca Mercer.
My blood ran cold.
Rebecca had supposedly disappeared from Patricia's life after Lily's death.
But Emily had seen her years later.
“What were they talking about?”” Ruiz asked.
Emily stared at the photograph.
“Lily.””
Nobody moved.
“What about Lily?””
“Becca kept saying Grandma lied.””
My heart hammered.
Emily's voice became smaller.
“She said, ‘You told me Lily couldn't get hurt.’”
Ruiz leaned forward.
“What did your grandmother say?””
Emily looked at me.
Then she repeated the sentence that Patricia had apparently been hiding for years.
“Grandma said, ‘Lily wasn't supposed to find the second bottle.’”
The room went completely silent.
Second bottle.
Michael slowly stood.
The bottle hidden inside Mr. Bunny suddenly wasn't just old evidence.
May you like
It was something Patricia had kept for seven years.
And if Lily had found a second bottle before she died, then the official story of an accidental poisoning had been missing one crucial piece from the beginning.
