Chapter 11 - The Witness Who Remembered Too Much
Daniel Harris looked twenty years older than he had three days earlier.
His face was gray.
His lips were cracked.
An IV line ran into his arm.
The monitors beside his bed made soft, steady sounds that seemed completely indifferent to the chaos around him.
I stood in the hospital hallway with Detective Shaw and Nadia Brooks.
Through the glass, I could see Daniel speaking to another investigator.
His wife sat beside him.
Her hands were clasped so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.
"He's lying," I whispered.
Shaw looked at me.
"You haven't heard his full account."
"He said I handed him the bottle."
"That's what he told the initial interviewer."
"I didn't."
Nadia placed a hand on my arm.
"Then don't speculate."
I turned toward her.
"How can I not?"
"By remembering that a frightened witness can be mistaken, manipulated, or dishonest."
"Which is he?"
"We don't know yet."
The detective looked through the glass.
"Daniel says he was given a sealed bottle in the lower corridor shortly before the service."
"By me?"
"By someone wearing your uniform."
I stopped.
"What?"
"He says he didn't see the woman's face clearly."
I stared at her.
"Then why did he give my name?"
"He recognized the bracelet."
My mouth went dry.
Nadia crossed her arms.
"So his identification is based on clothing and an item known to have been stolen."
Shaw nodded.
"That's one reason we're being careful."
I looked back at Daniel.
"Can I talk to him?"
"No."
Shaw's answer was immediate.
"Not while his account is being formally collected."
I wanted to argue.
Instead, I watched his wife smooth his hospital blanket.
He looked terrified.
Not merely sick.
Terrified.
That afternoon, the first laboratory findings arrived.
The substance detected in Daniel's samples was consistent with a toxic exposure.
Additional testing was underway to confirm the agent and determine whether it matched anything recovered from the wine.
The evidence was still developing.
But the medical team no longer believed Daniel had suffered an ordinary collapse.
Someone had nearly killed him.
Nadia told me this in her office.
Then she asked me to sit.
I did.
She placed a folder on the table.
"Mara, I need you to understand something."
"Okay."
"Even if you're innocent, the false identification creates legal risk."
My stomach tightened.
"What kind?"
"You could become a suspect if more evidence points toward you."
"But there isn't more evidence."
"Not that we've been told."
I stared at her.
"You're scaring me."
"I'm preparing you."
She leaned forward.
"From now on, do not speak with investigators without counsel present."
"Am I allowed to leave town?"
"You haven't been charged or restricted."
"Can I go to work?"
"You can."
I almost laughed.
"At Le Triomphe?"
"That's another issue."
I knew what she meant.
My manager had already removed me from the schedule.
Officially, I was on administrative leave.
Unofficially, everyone at the restaurant was avoiding my calls.
I had sixty-three dollars in my checking account.
My mother's rent was due in eight days.
And I was somehow connected to an attempted poisoning involving a billionaire whose family had been hiding secrets since before I was born.
Nadia watched me.
"What's worrying you most right now?"
I laughed bitterly.
"Do you want the alphabetical list?"
She didn't smile.
I looked down.
"The rent."
She nodded.
"Okay."
"Then my brother's tuition."
"Okay."
"Then the fact that someone knows where we live."
She wrote something.
"We're going to address each problem separately."
"How?"
"First, I'll contact the landlord about emergency rental assistance."
"Second, I want to review the university's hardship options for your brother."
"And third, Detective Shaw is coordinating with victim services regarding the threats."
I stared at her.
"You're serious."
"Very."
Something tightened in my throat.
"Why?"
She looked up.
"Why what?"
"Why are you helping?"
Nadia closed the folder.
"Because powerful people are very good at turning witnesses into suspects."
"And because somebody needs to make sure you're treated like a person instead of a useful piece of evidence."
For the first time in days, I cried.
Not because I felt safe.
Because someone had noticed that I wasn't.
At 7:12 that evening, Daniel's wife called me.
I had never given her my number.
That alone should have frightened me.
But when she whispered my name, I heard desperation.
"Mara?"
"Yes?"
"My name is Rachel Harris."
"How did you get this number?"
"Daniel gave it to me."
I sat up.
"Is he okay?"
"He's stable."
"Then what happened?"
She began crying.
"He needs you to know something."
I gripped the phone.
"What?"
"He didn't tell the police the whole truth."
My heart pounded.
"Why?"
"Because someone threatened our children."
I closed my eyes.
"Rachel."
"I know."
"Who?"
She was crying harder.
"I don't know."
"What did Daniel actually see?"
A long pause.
Then she whispered, "He saw the woman's face."
I stood.
"Who was it?"
"I can't say over the phone."
"Rachel, please."
"I have a photograph."
"Of the woman?"
"Yes."
"Where are you?"
She gave me the name of a small church in Brooklyn.
"Can you come?"
I looked toward the window.
A police car was still parked outside.
"I need to tell my attorney."
"Please hurry."
Then she said something that made my blood freeze.
"Daniel told me the woman was wearing your bracelet."
"I know."
"But she wasn't pretending to be you."
I stopped breathing.
"What?"
May you like
Rachel whispered, "She was pretending to be someone else."
Then the line went dead.
