Detective Reynolds turned the final page of the gray folder and studied it without speaking.
Andrew stood in the doorway of his home office, one hand still resting on the frame.
A moment earlier, he had entered with a smile, apparently expecting to find me defeated and ready to cook for his mother’s birthday party.
Instead, two uniformed officers stood beside his desk, his phone rested inside an evidence bag, and a $250,000 life insurance policy on my daughter lay open beneath the fluorescent desk lamp.
The smile disappeared.
Reynolds tapped the bottom of the page.
“Andrew, you should probably explain why your mother’s number is on this document.”
Andrew’s eyes moved from the detective to me.
“Amanda, what have you done?”
His voice carried the same wounded patience he had used for years whenever he wanted me to feel unreasonable.
I tightened my grip on the edge of the desk.
“Katie woke up.”
That was all I said.
Andrew’s face changed before he could stop it.
His eyes widened, and his shoulders pulled back as though someone had struck him.
Then the expression vanished.
“Thank God,” he said.
“Why didn’t anyone call me?”
Reynolds watched him carefully.
“What do you think she told us?”
Andrew looked at the dark jacket hanging in the hallway.
The movement was small, but everyone in the room saw it.
“She has a concussion,” he said.
