Page 34 of The Birthday Girl
The towel hit the floor, and her hands flew to her mouth, a muffled wail bursting out as she folded into herself. A man appeared behind her, graying and weary, eyes red-rimmed like he hadn’t slept in weeks. He caught her before she hit the floor, his gaze darting between the detectives.
“No!!! You got it wrong! Those aren’t my kids! You’re wrong!” The woman howled.
Vega forced himself to hold the father’s stare. “Their identities have been confirmed. I wish I could tell you otherwise.”
The mother's nails caught on her husband's shirt buttons as she crumpled against him, each sob punching through the hallway with physical force. Vega's throat tightened, acid rising from his stomach. He locked his knees to keep from swaying, bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper, and kept his face as smooth and cold as the morgue tables he'd left behind.
When the sobbing dulled to tremors, Vega cleared his throat. “Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, I wish I could give you time to grieve, but every hour matters now. Not right at this minute, but soon, I'll need to know who Mercedes and Jimmy saw regularly. Their routines. Anyone who might have...” He paused, watching the father's hand tighten on his wife's shoulder. “We want whoever did this caught before sundown tomorrow.”
Vega shifted his weight, his voice low but direct as he addressed the parents again. “Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, I need you to look at a photograph.”
He pulled a still from the folder Patel had given him and laid it flat against the doorframe, careful to keep the worst of the gore out of view. “This man was found with your children. Do you recognize him?”
The father squinted, leaning closer. His brows drew tight, then his lips thinned. “That’s Tremaine. Tremaine Washington. He moved in with Mercedes a few months ago.”
Vega made a note, his pen biting into the page. “Boyfriend?”
The father gave a reluctant nod. “Yes.”
“Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt them?”
Before either parent could respond, the rattle of tires on gravel drew Vega’s attention behind him. A white sedan pulled up at the curb, headlights cutting across the porch. A few moments later, a young woman climbed out, balancing a car seat on her arm.
Danielle.
Vega didn’t know her name yet, but he recognized her body language immediately: the quick stride, the weary posture of someone who dropped children off here often. She adjusted the child’s carrier and mounted the steps, smiling faintly until she saw the uniforms, the badges, and the mother collapsed in her husband’s arms. Her smile vanished.
“Hey, Mrs. Johnson,” Danielle sang, her tone weary. “What’s going on?”
Mrs. Johnson raised her head to look at her, her eyes bloodshot, lips trembling. “Mercedes… Jimmy…” The words broke apart in her throat.
Danielle froze. “No,” she whispered. Her knees buckled, and she staggered into the doorframe, steadying herself with one hand. “Not Cedes. Not Jimmy.”
Vega stepped closer, his gaze narrowing. “Who are you?”
“Danielle Banks.” The words barely made it over her tongue. “Mercedes and I are best friends.”
“So, it’s safe to say you know her well?”
Danielle swallowed hard, her eyes darting between the parents and the detective. “She was my family. Mercedes was my girl.” Her voice cracked. “Jimmy looked out for me. For my baby. They didn’t deserve this.”
Her grief was raw, but there was something else behind her eyes that captured Vega’s attention. He’d seen that look too many times before.
“Did you see them last night?” Vega pressed.
Danielle shook her head quickly. “No. Not last night.”
“But you saw them recently.”
“Yes,” she replied, her eyes darting from the Johnsons to Vega.
Vega caught it, that flicker of panic, and he cut in before she could bury it. “What aren’t you saying? Speak plainly.”
“Tremaine was always with her. If Mercedes was making moves, he was in it too.”
Vega’s head snapped toward her. “What kind of moves would those two be making?”
Danielle hesitated, her eyes darting between Vega and the grieving mother. “I shouldn’t—”
