Chapter 3 - The Missing Photograph
Detective Mills met me the next morning.
He brought no files.
Only memory.
“That staircase bothered me,” he said.
“How?”
“Your wife’s injuries were consistent with a fall. That part was real.”
My stomach twisted hearing Rachel called my wife again.
“But?”
“There were indications something happened before the fall.”
“What kind of indications?”
“A broken object upstairs. A chair slightly out of place. A red fiber caught on the banister.”
Red.
I thought about the dress hanging near my entryway.
Vanessa’s dress.
She had told me it was Rachel’s.
One of the things she kept because Rachel once borrowed it.
Mills continued.
“We photographed the broken glass.”
“Where’s the photograph?”
“That’s the problem.”
He looked embarrassed.
“It was uploaded to the case system. Later, it wasn’t there.”
“Deleted?”
“Could’ve been corrupted. Could’ve been mislabeled.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“No.”
“Who had access?”
“More people than you’d like.”
Then he asked something unexpected.
“Did Rachel drink?”
“Almost never.”
“Medication?”
“No.”
He nodded.
“Her toxicology showed a sedative.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Low dose. Not necessarily dangerous. Could have been prescribed.”
“She wasn’t prescribed sedatives.”
Mills looked troubled.
“That’s what I later learned.”
“Why wasn’t I told?”
“You were grieving. The medical examiner initially interpreted it as potentially incidental. And then we found a prescription bottle.”
“Where?”
“Kitchen cabinet.”
“Whose name?”
He paused.
“Rachel Carter.”
I felt my pulse in my throat.
Rachel hated taking medication.
She barely took ibuprofen.
“Was the prescription verified?”
“That’s where things got messy.”
The pharmacy listed on the bottle said they had no matching record.
Mills requested follow-up.
Then his supervisor closed the case pending no new evidence.
Accidental fall.
I sat there stunned.
“Who pushed to close it?”
He hesitated.
“I can’t prove anyone pushed.”
“Who?”
He finally answered.
“An assistant district attorney named Michael Reeves.”
I knew that name.
He had attended my wedding to Vanessa.
He was her cousin.
I felt the ground shift under me.
Before leaving, Mills gave me one more detail.
The missing photograph had shown a distinctive edge on the broken glass.
A thin painted line.
Dark red.
I went home and stared at the old shard Maisie had hidden.
Along one edge—
May you like
beneath the dust—
was a faded red stripe.
