Chapter 2 - THE EVIDENCE LOCKER
“Let’s discuss everything,” I repeated, keeping my voice terrifyingly calm.
Daniel offered a sad, patronizing smile. He reached out to touch my shoulder, playing the part of the long-suffering spouse for the observing detectives. I didn't pull away. I just stared at his hand until he lowered it.
Detective Miller, a stocky man with exhausted eyes, stepped forward holding a tablet. “Mrs. Carter, your mother is facing aggravated assault charges. Mr. Carter claims she struck him with a wrought-iron fireplace poker after a dispute over her mental health.”
Margaret squeezed her eyes shut, a tear slipping down her bruised cheek. “He’s lying, Emily. He pushed me against the credenza. I never touched a weapon.”
“The poker is missing from the house, Margaret,” Daniel said gently, his voice practically dripping with fake empathy. “You hid it after you swung at me. It’s okay. We’ll get you help.”
I turned my back on my husband and looked directly at Detective Miller. “Detective, my husband is right. The poker is missing from the house.”
Daniel let out a heavy sigh, nodding at the detective as if to say, See? Even the daughter admits it.
“It’s missing,” I continued, unzipping my leather tote bag, “because eleven days ago, I personally handed it to a forensic evidence custodian at secure storage facility.”
The room went completely silent.
Daniel’s theatrical posture stiffened. For a fraction of a second, the mask slipped, revealing the cold, calculating panic beneath his charm.
I pulled a yellow carbon-copy receipt from my wallet and slid it across the metal desk. “My mother found that poker at one of Daniel’s vacant properties. It had traces of paint from a forced entry. We preserved it for an ongoing private financial investigation. Here is the chain of custody.”
Detective Miller stared at the paper. Then he stared at Daniel.
“Mr. Carter,” the detective said slowly. “You specifically described an antique iron poker with a twisted handle. Is there a second one in your home?”
“No,” Daniel stammered, recovering quickly. “I… in the chaos, I must have been mistaken about the object. It was a heavy brass candlestick. Yes. She swung a candlestick.”
“You explicitly told the responding officers she threatened to impale you,” Miller noted, his tone hardening.
“People make mistakes under trauma,” Daniel said, his voice tightening. He looked at me, a silent warning in his eyes. “Emily, don’t do this to her. Don't enable her delusions. Look in her coat pocket.”
I frowned. Miller stepped toward Margaret’s tweed coat, draped over her chair. He slipped his gloved hand inside and pulled out a heavy, silver money clip.
“She took this from my desk tonight,” Daniel said smoothly. “She’s stealing. She’s confused.”
Miller held it up. But I recognized the monogram. It wasn't Daniel's.
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It was inscribed with the initials R.V.
“That,” I said, my heart slamming against my ribs, “belongs to Richard Vance. The trust lawyer who died in a car accident three days ago.”
