Detective Rodriguez recovered first. “David Chen?”
“Yes,” he said carefully.
She opened the folder. “Date of birth, May seventh?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know a woman named Esther Mullins?”
“No.”
“Have you ever received or transferred one hundred thousand dollars?”
David gave a tiny snort. “If I had, do you really think I’d still be using a six-year-old wheelchair with a joystick that sticks left when it rains?”
A flicker of embarrassment crossed the younger officer’s face.
Rodriguez didn’t smile, but her expression changed. Her eyes sharpened, like puzzle pieces had started moving in her head. “Mrs. Chen, may we sit down?”
That was the moment I knew this wasn’t random. This wasn’t some clerical mix-up. Someone had put my son’s name into something criminal on purpose.
And in the marrow of my bones, before any proof, before any bank records, before any search warrants, I knew exactly who had done it.
Marcus Thompson.
My ex-husband.
David’s father.
There are betrayals you survive by turning them into stories. You tell them enough times that the edges wear down and the pain becomes a shape you can hold in your hand.
