“We couldn’t prove the conspiracy,” Ortiz said. “Not yet. Then yesterday, a witness disappeared in Kansas City. Today your daughter ends up in the ER with a message carved into her back.”
She didn’t need to say the rest.
This was bigger than domestic violence.
Daniel arrived just before midnight. He rushed into the hallway, tie loosened, face pale, eyes red. The act would have convinced anyone.
Maybe once it would have convinced me.
“Richard—where is she?”
Ortiz stepped in front of him. “Daniel Miller?”
He flinched at the badge, but only for a split second. Then the grief returned—controlled, measured.
“She’s my wife,” he said. “What happened?”
I pulled the strip of cloth from my pocket and held it up.
His gaze dropped to the initials.
And that was the first crack.
His face didn’t show guilt.
It showed recognition.
Then fear.
“That’s not mine,” he said too quickly.
