Chapter 5
The living room seemed to shrink as Vance’s words hung in the air. Elena’s hand dropped back to her side with a soft rustle of lace, but her expression did not fracture. She had prepared for this; every movement, every breath was calculated to project the sorrow of a matriarch protecting a fragile child.
“Children under stress construct elaborate fantasies, Detective,” Elena said, her voice dripping with maternal exhaustion. She sighed, pressing two fingers to the bridge of her nose as if staving off a migraine. “Lily was very close to her mother. When she woke up and found out Maya was gone, her mind simply broke under the weight of it. She saw men in suits on television, she heard us talking about funeral arrangements, and she mashed it all together into some dark little story about her uncle.”
Vance listened, his eyes never leaving Elena’s face. He nodded slowly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He flipped open his notebook, the pages crackling dryly in the quiet room.
“That’s one theory, Mrs. Vance,” Vance replied, his tone conversational, almost too casual. “Children do invent things when they’re scared. But children also repeat what they see with brutal accuracy. Which brings me to Mr. Derek Vance here.” The detective turned his gaze toward Derek, gesturing lightly with his pen. “That’s a nasty mark on your jaw, Derek. Looks like a signet ring caught you right under the bone. When did you say that happened?”
Derek didn’t blink. He raised a hand, his fingers lightly brushing the bruised skin as if he had only just remembered it was there. “Client meeting gone wrong, Detective. Downtown office, late last night. Tempers flare when millions of dollars are tied up in corporate restructuring. You can ask my associates.”
“Oh, we did,” Vance said smoothly. “Called your associate at two in the morning. He said you left the office at eight yesterday evening. The fight at your sister’s house didn’t start until midnight.”
A heavy, suffocating silence dropped over the room. Grandfather let out a harsh, rattling breath from his wheelchair, his hand twitching against the armrest. He raised his finger again, pointing it not just at Derek this time, but sweeping it toward Elena as well, his eyes wide with a desperate, silent plea for the detective to understand.
Elena’s composure wavered for a fraction of a second—a microscopic tightening of her jaw, a slight hardening of her eyes. But she recovered instantly, stepping forward to bridge the gap between Vance and her son.
“My son was here by ten, Detective,” Elena lied, her voice unwavering, cold, and absolute. “He came straight to the house to comfort me after the paramedics left. If his associate has his timelines confused, that’s hardly a criminal offense.”
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Vance looked between them—the mother defending her son with chilling efficiency, the son standing silent with a bruised face, and the old man in the corner shaking with impotent fury.
“We’ll see,” Vance said quietly, snapping his notebook shut. “The autopsy results come in tomorrow morning. Until then, I’d advise everyone to stay close to home.”
