Chapter 4: He Walked In Smiling
I looked at Detective Collins.
"He's in the parking garage," I said.
She was already moving.
"Officer Reyes." The uniformed officer in the hallway stepped inside.
"Stay with the girl." Collins turned to me.
"Come with me.
Don't say anything that tells him we have the bank records.
Let him talk."
"What am I supposed to say?"
"Say you're glad he came.
Say Lily is scared.
Let him be the brother." She held the door.
"He's been performing that role for two years.
Let him do it one more time."
We met Michael at the elevator bank on the third floor.
He stepped out carrying a paper bag from the hospital café.
Juice boxes and a wrapped sandwich, the kind of thing you bring when you want to look like someone who thought ahead.
He was wearing the grey jacket I'd given him for his birthday three years ago.
He looked tired in a way that seemed practiced.
"Daniel." He pulled me into a hug before I could step back.
"I came as fast as I could."
"Thanks for coming," I said.
He pulled back and looked at my face.
Something moved behind his eyes — a quick scan, checking for information.
"You look terrible," he said.
"Have you eaten anything?"
"Not yet."
"I brought stuff for Lily." He held up the bag.
Then he noticed Detective Collins standing two steps behind me.
His expression shifted by almost nothing.
Almost.
"Sorry — I didn't realize you had someone with you."
"This is Detective Collins," I said.
"She's been helping with what happened at the luncheon."
Michael extended his hand.
"Michael Hartwell.
Daniel's brother.
Is there any update on what actually happened?
Because I have to tell you, the whole thing sounds like a nightmare."
Collins shook his hand.
"We're still gathering information."
"Of course." He turned back to me.
"Can I see Lily?"
We walked back to the room.
Michael went directly to the bed, set the bag on the chair beside her, and crouched down to her level.
He smoothed her hair back from her forehead the way he'd done a hundred times at the kitchen table.
"Hey, bug," he said softly.
"You gave us quite a scare."
Lily looked at him.
She didn't say anything.
Michael kept his smile in place.
"Are you feeling better?
The juice in that bag is the mango kind.
Your favorite."
"Thank you," Lily said.
Her voice was careful in a way no eight-year-old's voice should have to be.
Michael stood and turned to me.
"Has anyone told you what caused the reaction?
Because I was thinking about it on the drive over, and I honestly can't understand how peanuts got near her plate.
You're always so careful."
"We're still figuring that out," I said.
"Right." He nodded slowly.
"And Evelyn — is she still here?
I tried calling her on the way and she didn't pick up."
Collins spoke from the doorway.
"Mrs.
Hart is no longer on the premises."
Michael looked at her.
"Did she go home?
She must be beside herself."
"Mr.
Hartwell," Collins said, "do you mind if I ask you a few questions while you're here?
Routine follow-up."
"Of course.
Whatever helps." He sat in the chair beside Lily's bed, relaxed, one ankle crossed over his knee.
The paper bag was between him and his niece like a small peace offering.
Collins opened her notepad.
"You mentioned on the phone that you knew Daniel carried two injectors.
How did you know that?"
"Daniel told me.
When Lily was first diagnosed, he walked me through the whole protocol.
Two injectors, always in his left jacket pocket." He glanced at me.
"You were very thorough about it."
"And when you called and asked if the doctors had found the second injector — what made you think one was missing?"
A half-second pause.
"I assumed.
If there was a reaction bad enough for an ambulance, I figured at least one had been used."
"But you asked specifically if they'd found it," Collins said.
"Not whether it had been used."
Michael's ankle came down off his knee.
"I don't remember the exact words I used.
I was worried."
"Of course." Collins made a note.
"One more thing.
Do you recognize this?" She held up a photograph — a printout of the bank statement, the four highlighted withdrawals.
Michael looked at it for exactly the right amount of time.
Not too long.
Not too short.
"That looks like a bank statement," he said.
"Whose is it?"
"Anna Hartwell's trust account," Collins said.
"The one Daniel manages as trustee."
"Okay." He handed it back.
"What about it?"
"The authorizing signatures on these four withdrawals don't match Daniel's signature on file with the estate attorney." Collins tucked the photo away.
"We're trying to determine who made them."
Michael looked at me.
His expression was sympathetic and slightly confused, the face of a man hearing upsetting news about his brother for the first time.
"Daniel," he said, "do you have any idea who could have done that?"
I looked at my brother.
The grey jacket.
The juice boxes.
The practiced exhaustion.
"Not yet," I said.
He nodded slowly.
Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.
He glanced at the screen and something tightened at the corner of his mouth — gone in an instant.
He put the phone away without answering.
"Sorry," he said.
"Work."
But Collins had seen it too.
May you like
Her pen stopped moving.
And I knew, without being told, that the call had been from Evelyn.
