Chapter 5: The Detective and the Memory Card
The detective's name was Renata Voss.
She had short gray hair, reading glasses pushed up on her forehead, and the kind of stillness that made you feel like she had already heard every version of every story and was simply waiting for yours.
She sat across from me in a small room at the station while a family liaison officer stayed with Lily in a separate room with juice boxes and a box of crayons.
"Walk me through the morning," Voss said.
"From the moment you pulled into the driveway."
I walked her through it.
All of it.
She didn't interrupt once.
When I finished, she set her pen down.
"The plate number you gave us — the sedan.
We ran it.
It's registered to a leasing company.
The vehicle was rented two days ago under a corporate account."
"Whose corporate account?"
"That's what we're working on." She folded her hands on the table.
"I want to ask you about Brenda Cole.
How well do you know her?"
"Not well.
My sister met her through the school.
They're in the same parent volunteer group.
Lily has been to two sleepovers there before.
Nothing ever seemed wrong."
"Did your sister have any concerns about her?"
"None.
She thought Brenda was — organized.
Reliable.
The kind of mother who sends home a printed schedule of the night's activities."
Voss's expression didn't change, but something behind her eyes sharpened.
"A printed schedule."
"That's what my sister said."
"Did you ever see one of these schedules?"
"No.
But my sister mentioned it once.
Said Brenda ran the sleepovers like a military operation.
Timed activities.
Assigned sleeping spots.
She thought it was funny.
Thorough."
Voss picked up her pen again.
"The memory card we recovered from the seventh sleeping bag.
Our tech team is processing it now.
I can't tell you what's on it.
But I can tell you it was not accidentally left behind.
It was placed inside a zippered interior pocket of that sleeping bag.
Deliberately concealed."
The room felt smaller suddenly.
"Someone left it there on purpose," I said.
"That's what it looks like." She leaned forward slightly.
"Ms.
—"
"Calloway.
Dana Calloway."
"Ms.
Calloway.
The girl whose name was on that sleeping bag.
Chloe Marsh.
She's been missing for eight days.
Her parents have been contacted.
They're on their way here now." She paused.
"I want you to understand that what you did this morning — staying on that driveway, keeping Lily close, memorizing that plate, calling 911 instead of leaving — may matter more than you know."
I looked at my hands on the table.
They were steadier than I expected.
"Brenda threatened me," I said.
"She said her husband is on the city planning board.
That the police chief was at their Fourth of July party."
Voss didn't blink.
"I heard.
It's in your statement." She stood.
"I'm going to ask you to stay available.
Don't discuss the details of this with anyone outside your immediate family.
And Ms.
Calloway —" She stopped at the door.
"The other five girls from last night.
We're contacting their parents now.
We're going to need to speak with all of them."
"Are they safe?"
"We believe so." She paused.
"But we don't yet know everything that happened in that house last night.
And until we do, I'd prefer you keep Lily close."
She left.
The door didn't quite close behind her.
Through the gap, I heard a voice in the hallway — a woman's voice, high and tight with barely controlled panic.
"Where is she?
Someone tell me where my daughter is.
Her name is Chloe.
Chloe Marsh.
Please.
May you like
Someone tell me something."
I pressed my hand flat against the table and breathed.
