Chapter 12 - WHAT AMANDA HID
Sophie knew nothing about the evidence.
Of course she didn’t.
She was four.
But Daniel apparently believed my mother had hidden something in an object that eventually passed to Sophie.
Why?
Because Amanda told him so.
That revelation came from Amanda herself.
“I lied,” she admitted during another recorded interview.
I stared at her through the glass partition.
“About what?”
“Months ago, Daniel asked if your mother left you anything besides money.”
“She left me half her house.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
“I told him about the music box.”
My stomach tightened.
Sophie kept an antique music box on her dresser.
My mother had given it to me shortly before she died.
I gave it to Sophie when she turned three.
Amanda continued.
“I told Daniel you once said your mother loved hiding notes in old things.”
“She did.”
“When Daniel started pushing harder, I panicked.”
“So you lied.”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That your mother hid account keys inside the music box.”
I stared at her.
“Why would you say that?”
“Because I thought it would keep him focused on an object instead of you.”
“It focused him on my daughter.”
“I didn’t know you’d given it to Sophie.”
I stood so quickly my chair scraped backward.
“Everything you touched got closer to her.”
Amanda started crying.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
“You got to walk into our house because Sophie trusted you.”
“I know.”
“You braided her hair.”
“I know.”
“You tucked her in.”
“I know.”
“And while she loved you, you photographed our documents for criminals.”
Amanda covered her mouth.
I wanted to hate her cleanly.
Completely.
It would have been easier.
But guilt was all over her face.
Not innocence.
Guilt.
There is a difference.
And guilt does not erase damage.
Grant interrupted.
“Where’s the music box?”
I thought.
Matt’s house.
No.
When we evacuated after the break-in, Kelly packed some of Sophie’s things.
The music box had been taken to the hotel.
I called Matt.
No answer.
Called Kelly.
No answer.
My pulse jumped.
Then Matt called back.
His voice was breathless.
“Ryan.”
“What happened?”
“Someone was in the hotel room.”
My knees went weak.
“Where is Sophie?”
“With Kelly. They were downstairs.”
“Thank God.”
“The room got torn apart.”
“The music box?”
“Gone.”
I looked at Amanda.
Her face collapsed.
Then my phone received a video message.
Sophie’s music box sat on a metal table.
A gloved hand opened it.
The little ballerina began turning.
Then Daniel Mercer finally stepped into frame.
Older.
Gray-haired.
Calm.
He looked into the camera.
“Your mother wasted six years of my life.”
He picked up a hammer.
“Now you’re going to give me what she took.”
He smashed Sophie’s music box.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then he leaned toward the camera.
“And if the files aren’t where I think they are, I’ll start opening other things she left behind.”
Behind him was a photograph.
May you like
A school picture of Sophie.
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