“Two months ago,” the agent continued, “someone accessed sealed files. Surveillance increased, but your daughter refused protective custody. She didn’t want her life controlled.”
That sounded like Grace—my stubborn, fearless sixteen-year-old.
Dr. Reynolds’s voice cracked. “The crash wasn’t an accident. Her brakes were tampered with. And the bruises mean she was grabbed before impact.”
I barely breathed. “You’re telling me my daughter was murdered.”
Silence answered.
Agent Bennett closed the folder. “Yes. And we believe you may also be at risk.”
My grief sharpened into fury. “Who did this?”
She hesitated. “We believe someone close to you may be connected.”
She slid a document toward me.
I froze when I saw the name.
My sister.
“My sister?” I whispered. “That’s impossible.”
“We’re not accusing her,” Bennett said. “But her name appeared on an encrypted contact list. We need to know if you noticed anything unusual.”
Memories rushed in—her sudden money, new car, unexplained trips. Things I’d ignored.
Dr. Reynolds touched my shoulder. “I thought the danger had passed. I was wrong.”
“And because of that,” I said hollowly, “my daughter is dead.”
He bowed his head, tears falling.
Agent Bennett stood. “We need to relocate you temporarily.”
“I can’t leave her,” I sobbed. “She’s there—”
“You’re not abandoning her,” she said softly. “You’re surviving.”
I wiped my tears and straightened. “Then I want answers. All of them.”
She nodded and handed me a USB drive. “Your daughter recorded something the day before she died.”
I clutched it to my chest. “Then we listen.”
“Somewhere safe,” she replied.
As they led me out, grief hardened into resolve. Someone thought they could silence my daughter.
They were wrong.
