Chapter 8 - THE SECOND PERSON
Police caught no one.
But the broken kitchen window gave them something better.
Blood.
Whoever climbed through had cut themselves.
DNA went to the lab.
While we waited, Cole dug through Vanessa’s history.
Real name: Vanessa Blake.
No violent convictions.
One sealed juvenile case.
Multiple addresses.
No known siblings.
Father deceased.
Mother living in Arizona.
Then Cole found something strange.
Vanessa had listed an emergency contact at St. Matthew’s.
Dr. Nathan Mercer.
A cardiologist.
Rachel’s cardiologist.
Rachel had a mild heart arrhythmia discovered after Lily’s birth.
Nothing life-threatening.
But Dr. Mercer knew her medical history.
He also signed paperwork after Rachel died.
I stared at Cole.
“You think the doctor was involved?”
“I think we ask questions before we think anything.”
Mercer was sixty-two, respected, wealthy, married.
He denied knowing Vanessa socially.
Then Cole showed him phone records.
His hands started shaking.
“I gave her advice,” Mercer said.
“What kind?”
“She had questions.”
“About what?”
“Medication.”
“What medication?”
He refused to answer without an attorney.
That was answer enough.
Police obtained a warrant for Mercer’s records.
That afternoon, they discovered he had prescribed sedatives to Vanessa using a fake patient profile.
The same class of medication that may have been inside Lily’s unlabeled bottle.
My anger became something colder than anger.
Vanessa hadn’t just been abusing Lily.
She had been drugging her.
Maybe so Lily would sleep.
Maybe to keep her quiet.
Maybe for something worse.
Cole interviewed Lily again.
She remembered waking up “dizzy” and “heavy.”
She remembered Vanessa inviting “Doctor Nate” to the house twice while I was away.
I had never met Doctor Nate.
That night, DNA results came back from the broken window.
Not Vanessa.
Nathan Mercer.
Police arrested him at home.
Under pressure, Mercer started talking.
Not about the recent break-in.
About Rachel.
Three years earlier, Vanessa had become obsessed with Rachel’s life.
Her husband.
Her child.
Her house.
According to Mercer, Vanessa believed Rachel had “stolen the life she deserved.”
“She wanted Rachel gone,” Mercer admitted.
Cole asked, “Did you help her kill Rachel?”
Mercer stared at the table.
“No.”
“Did you give Vanessa medication?”
“Yes.”
“Did she use it on Rachel?”
“I don’t know.”
“You knew what she planned.”
“I knew she hated her.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Mercer cried.
Actually cried.
“I never touched the car.”
Cole leaned forward.
“Then who did?”
Mercer looked toward the interview-room camera.
Then whispered:
“Vanessa’s mother.”
That answer made no sense.
Until investigators contacted Arizona.
Vanessa’s mother wasn’t in Arizona.
She had never moved there.
The address Vanessa provided belonged to a vacant lot.
Her mother, Diane Blake, lived less than forty miles from us.
Under another name.
And according to vehicle registration records...
the dark SUV parked near Megan’s house belonged to her.
But that wasn’t the worst discovery.
Detectives searched Diane’s current address.
The house was empty.
Except for one bedroom.
Inside were dozens of photographs of Lily.
Recent photographs.
Preschool.
Playground.
My parents’ driveway.
And on the bedroom wall was a handwritten calendar.
One date had been circled three times.
Tomorrow.
Beneath it, one word:
May you like
LILY.
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