Page 60 of The Birthday Girl
Vega reached for the folder, tucking it under his arm. “We’ll be back, and when we do, you’d better hope your sister’s story isn’t more believable than yours.”
Danielle forced a bitter smile through her tears. “Good. Go to her. You’ll see the kind of monster she really is.”
Vega and Ramirez exchanged a look, then moved toward the door. As they stepped back out into the rain, Vega glanced back at Danielle one last time. She still stood by the table, her fists pressed flat against the wood, her shadow stretching long across the dining room floor.
Outside, Vega exhaled, his shoulders taut.
“What do you think?” Ramirez asked.
Vega’s eyes stayed on the windows of the house. “Either we just witnessed an Oscar-worthy performance, or she's genuinely clueless about the quicksand she's standing in. I’ve seen enough families spiral to know that even the best liars eventually trip over their stories.”
Ramirez slid his hands into his pockets, eyes narrowing at the bleak horizon. “Yeah. And she didn’t waste a second throwing Tahlia under the bus.”
Vega shook his head, rain dripping from his jawline. “There’s no love lost between those two. She went straight for her throat.”
“Yeah,” Ramirez agreed. “But if she didn’t know her parents were gone… that kind of pain isn’t easy to fake.”
Vega started the engine, letting the heater fog the windows as he watched Danielle through the glass. Her silhouette hovered in the foyer, shoulders trembling with the force of her breathing.
“She’s scared,” Vega said.
“Shouldn’t she be?” Ramirez asked, turning to him. “Between Tahlia, the dead ex, the boat… If I were her, I’d lock my doors and never sleep again.”
Vega snapped the folder shut and rested it on the dashboard. “We’ll put a tail on Danielle tomorrow to see where she goes and who she talks to. Right now, I want her thinking we bought half her story.”
Ramirez leaned back in his seat, watching the wipers swipe the windshield clean. “And the other half?”
Vega’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “The other half belongs to Tahlia. One sister is hiding something, the other is playing dumb. Maybe both are killers.” He shifted into gear, the cruiser rolling away from the curb.
Through the rain-smeared glass, Danielle’s figure shrank in the rearview mirror.
“She’s right about one thing,” Ramirez said. “Tahlia’s got the power. If this all ties back to her, we’re not chasing a grieving daughter, we’re chasing a serial killer.”
“And if Danielle’s lying, she’s more dangerous than her sister. Either way, this family’s rotten to the core.”
21- Wrong Bitch
It had been three days since the detectives left her house with news she could still barely process, and three days of silence, unanswered calls, and a grief that refused to take shape. Danielle barely ate, barely slept, and when she did close her eyes, she woke choking on the same question—why hadn’t anyone told her?
Danielle swiped at her swollen eyes with the back of her hand, though the tears kept coming faster than she could catch them. Her parents were gone. Dead. Never coming back.
She staggered to the kitchen, more out of muscle memory than any conscious need, and stood in front of the open refrigerator with no clue what she was looking for. Somewhere behind the rot of old lettuce, a carton of eggs stared back at her. Danielle grabbed them, set them on the counter, and then let her hands drop to her sides.
She pictured her mother there, in that same kitchen, preparing soup when she was sick as she hummed an off-tune melody.The memory struck with such force that Danielle doubled over, elbows hitting the counter, and stayed that way long enough for the eggs to come to room temperature.
Hearing her daughter cry, Danielle quickly straightened, wiped snot from her lip, and shuffled into the living room where Tyricka lay on the sofa, trying to suck her thumb. Tyricka's eyes flicked up to meet Danielle's, and her tiny face crumpled like tissue paper, her wails rising to match the storm behind her mother’s swollen lids as if grief could pass between them.
She scooped Tyricka up, and they both were soaked in tears and mucus. Danielle wasn’t built for this. She could manage the grit of the streets, but the logistics of continuing to exist without her parents’ presence left her adrift.
Tyricka’s small hands fisted her shirt with abrupt, panicked strength, and Danielle pressed her daughter’s head to her shoulder as she staggered back toward the kitchen.
Outside, the city carried on oblivious. Somewhere, a garbage truck reversed, bleating. The neighbor’s dog barked at imagined threats. Life, Danielle thought, was supposed to keep going, but hers had collapsed inward.
Her phone vibrated, and she rushed back to the living room to grab it off the coffee table. It was Miracle, her other best friend. Danielle answered with a strangled, “Hello,” but even that small effort felt like a betrayal of her interior collapse.
“Dani,” Miracle said, “I just listened to the message you left about your parents. I am so fucking sorry.”
Danielle attempted a laugh to cut the tension, but came out as a hiccuped sob. “You just heard? I thought—” She paused, picking at a scab on her arm, and looked down at the child sagging into her hip. “Never mind. I—yeah. Thanks for calling.”
