“One print was clear enough for comparison.”
I stopped breathing.
“Was it Nana’s?”
“No.”
The word struck hard.
I lowered my eyes.
Officer Phil spoke gently.
“That doesn’t mean she never handled it. The surface had been wiped several times.”
“Whose print was it?”
Detective Collins opened the folder.
“A woman named Marisol Vega.”
I stared at her.
“I don’t know that name.”
“She’s thirty-one years old. She has prior arrests for shoplifting and possession of stolen property. Nothing violent.”
“Is she the woman who sold the bracelet?”
“We believe so.”
“Have you found her?”
“Not yet.”
My frustration exploded before I could control it.
“Then why are you standing here?”
Claire reached for my arm, but I pulled away.
“Ten years,” I said. “You had ten years. Now someone walks into a flea market carrying my daughter’s bracelet, and you still lose her?”
Collins did not react defensively.
“We did not lose her. We identified her less than twelve hours ago.”
“Then find her.”
“We are trying.”
“Try harder.”
The room fell silent.
I pressed both hands against my face.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“No,” Collins said. “You’re angry. You have every right to be.”
I looked at her again.
“How did Marisol get it?”
“That’s what we intend to ask.”
“Could she know Nana?”
“Possibly.”
“Could she be Nana?”
Detective Collins hesitated.
“No.”
I felt foolish the moment the question left my mouth.
Of course she wasn’t.
Marisol was younger.
Her name, her arrest record, her photograph—everything was different.
Still, some irrational part of me had hoped.
Collins slid a photograph across the table.
Marisol Vega was tall and slender. She had thick black curls falling past her shoulders.
From a distance, in poor light, the flea-market vendor could easily have mistaken her for Nana.
I studied the face.
There was something wary in her eyes.
Something exhausted.
“Where does she live?”
“Her registered address is outdated.”
“Family?”
“An aunt in Riverside. A brother in Phoenix. Neither claims to know where she is.”
“Do you believe them?”
“We’re checking.”
Officer Phil cleared his throat.
“There’s something else.”
The way he said it made Claire sit beside me.
I remained standing.
“What?”
“The search of Felix’s office uncovered an old storage-unit contract.”
“Storage?”
“It was rented under a false name three days after Nana disappeared.”
Cold spread through me.
“What’s inside?”
“We opened it this morning.”
I gripped the back of the chair.
“And?”
“Boxes of financial documents. Letters. Several old phones. Clothing.”
“Her clothing?”
“We’re still cataloging it.”
My voice became barely audible.
“Was there blood?”
“No.”
“Anything that proves he hurt her?”
“Not yet.”
I closed my eyes.
Not yet.
Those words had become another form of torture.
Detective Collins reached into the folder and removed a clear evidence sleeve.
Inside was a folded sheet of paper.
Even before she placed it on the table, I recognized the handwriting.
Nana’s.
My knees weakened.
“Where did you find that?”
“In the storage unit.”
I reached toward it.
Collins stopped me gently.
“You can read it through the sleeve.”
I sat down at last.
The handwriting shook across the page as if Nana had written quickly.
Mom,
I don’t know if you’ll ever see this. Dad says you could be in danger if I tell you what I found. I don’t know whether he’s telling the truth, but I can’t risk being wrong.
I found bank statements hidden in his office. He’s been sending money to someone named Carla for almost two years. When I confronted him, he begged me not to tell you.
Then he said things that scared me.
I don’t trust him.
I need time to think.
Please know I didn’t leave because of you.
I left because I love you.
Nana
The words blurred.
I read them again.
Then again.
I had imagined thousands of explanations for her disappearance.
Anger.
Fear.
An accident.
A secret relationship.
A crime.
But I had never imagined her sitting alone somewhere, writing those words while believing she was saving my life.
“Why was this in Felix’s storage unit?” I asked.
Collins folded her hands.
“That’s one of the questions we’re asking him.”
“What did he say?”
“He claims Nana left the note in the kitchen.”
“And he hid it.”
“Yes.”
“For ten years.”
“Yes.”
My fingers pressed against the plastic sleeve.
“He knew she loved me.”
No one answered.
“He knew I thought she had abandoned us.”
My voice cracked.
“He watched me blame myself every day.”
Claire moved closer and wrapped an arm around my shoulders.
I barely felt it.
