Chapter 6 - Britta’s Version
By sunrise, the workshop smelled like cold metal and a question neither of us could answer.
I drove Mom home. She didn’t ask me to forgive her for hiding the envelope, and I didn’t pretend that finding it would make everything simple. I left her at the kitchen table with her sling and a mug of tea, then went looking for Britta.
I checked the gas station near the highway, the grocery lot, and the streets around the police station. I didn’t have a plan beyond finding her before Daniel did—or before whoever had taken the envelope decided to come back for something else.
I found her outside a closed diner just after the morning sky turned gray. She sat on the curb beneath the dark windows, her back against the brick, staring at her phone. When I got out, she looked up and shoved it into her coat pocket.
“Don’t,” she said.
“I haven’t said anything yet.”
“You’re about to.”
The diner’s metal sign knocked in the wind. Britta looked exhausted, but exhaustion wasn’t remorse. I thought of Mom’s sling, the tight line of her mouth when the doctor explained the fracture, and the way she’d flinched at the camera click when I photographed her injuries.
“I want to know what Daniel told you,” I said.
Britta’s gaze slid toward the road. “You came all this way to ask about him?”
“I came to ask about the night you hit Mom.”
Her face tightened.
“I already told the police she fell.”
“I know what you told them.”
“You don’t know what happened.”
“Then tell me.”
She pushed herself upright, wincing as if her legs had gone stiff. “She wouldn’t give me the papers.”
“What papers?”
“The ones Grandpa left. She said there was nothing.”
“Mom thought there was nothing.”
“She always says that when she doesn’t want to share.”
I watched her. “Share what?”
Britta rubbed her palms down the front of her jeans. “Daniel said the house could be sold. He said Grandpa’s papers would prove Mom kept the money and cut us out.”
The words seemed to come faster once she’d started, tumbling out with the brittle confidence of something she’d repeated to herself.
“He said there was enough for me to get out from under my debt. I wasn’t asking for a fortune, Anna. I wanted what was mine.”
“You wanted Mom’s house sold.”
“I wanted the truth.”
“Those aren’t the same thing.”
Her eyes flashed. “Easy for you to say. You always act like she’s the one who gets hurt and we’re supposed to feel guilty for noticing.”
“I’m not asking you to feel guilty for wanting answers.”
“She lied to us.”
“Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she was scared. Maybe she had something she should’ve told us.” I kept my voice level, though anger was rising under it. “None of that gave you the right to hit her with a bat.”
Britta flinched. For a moment, I saw the little sister who used to go still when she knew she’d crossed a line. Then she folded her arms over her chest.
“I didn’t mean to hurt her that badly.”
“You swung an aluminum bat at her.”
“I told you, I was angry.”
“You followed her into the garage.”
Her jaw moved, but no answer came.
I let the silence stand. It was tempting to soften it, to offer some small bridge between us. But a bridge built over what she’d done would only hide the damage underneath.
“Did Daniel tell you what to say to the police?” I asked.
“No.”
“You said she fell.”
“She did fall.”
“Brandt’s report said that before Mom even got to the station.”
A flicker crossed Britta’s face. “I don’t know anything about a report.”
“Daniel opened her case before the report was changed. I know he was looking at it.”
She looked away.
“Someone came to our house before dawn,” I said. “The garage latch was bent. The drawers and cabinets were open. Our neighbor’s camera caught someone in uniform getting out of a car.”
Britta stared down at the pavement.
“Did you know about that?”
“No.”
“Did Daniel?”
“I said I don’t know.”
“Look at me.”
Her eyes lifted. I watched the fear in them sharpen into anger.
“I didn’t know he was going to your house,” she said. “I didn’t know about a camera.”
I couldn’t tell if she was telling the truth. The way her gaze had dropped left the question open between us, more alarming than a clean denial.
“Did you know he went there?”
“No.”
“Britta—”
A truck turned into the lot.
It came in too fast for the narrow entrance, tires crunching over gravel. The driver swung wide, then stopped across the lane between Britta and the road. For a second, the windshield reflected the diner’s blank windows, hiding whoever sat behind it.
Then the door opened.
Daniel stepped down from the cab.
He wore no uniform. He didn’t need one. His eyes moved from me to Britta, taking in the space between us and deciding, somehow, that it belonged to him.
“There you are,” he said to her.
Britta went rigid.
I shifted between them. “We’re talking.”
Daniel’s smile was brief and cold. “You’ve done enough.”
“You accessed Mom’s case before I walked into the station.”
His expression barely changed. “You don’t understand what you’re looking at.”
“I understand the time stamps.”
“Those records are being handled.”
“By the same people who wrote down that Mom declined help when she hadn’t?”
Daniel’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t your case to manage.”
“It’s my mother.”
“And Britta’s your sister.” He looked past me. “Come on. Get in the truck.”
Britta didn’t move.
“Daniel,” she said, almost too quietly to hear.
He gave her a patient look that made my stomach turn. “You told your story already. Don’t let Anna twist you around.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” I said.
He kept his eyes on Britta. “You want this over? Let me handle it.”
“The papers aren’t there,” she said.
Daniel’s face changed—not much, but enough. His attention snapped to her.
“What did you say?”
“At the workshop. They were gone.”
I stared at her. She knew about the workshop. Or at least she knew enough to recognize what I meant. I wanted to ask how, but Daniel was watching her now, his patience drained away.
“They’re making a lot out of nothing,” he said. “You don’t need to get involved in this.”
“You promised me the sale would fix everything,” Britta said.
“It will.”
“And Mom?”
“Your mother made her choices.”
“That’s what you said before.”
Daniel stepped closer. I held my ground, but the gravel shifted under his boot.
“Britta,” he said, his voice dropping. “The police already believe you.”
May you like
He didn’t look at me when he said it. He didn’t have to.
Britta glanced at me, then at the truck. Her hand rose toward the passenger-side door. I couldn’t tell whether she was reaching for the handle—or reaching for the only way out she thought she had.
