Chapter 9
The sheriff’s vehicle remained outside the clinic when I came through the entrance with the evidence bag pressed to my chest.
Nora held the door for me. “They’re waiting for your statement about the inspection.”
“I already gave one.”
“This is supplemental. Carla found something else.”
Evan stepped aside so I could pass without touching him. He had learned that quickly. No hand at my back. No guiding pressure at my elbow. If I stopped, he stopped.
The clinic smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant. My palms had been wrapped again, and every time my fingers flexed, the skin pulled tight beneath the gauze. I kept seeing the knife lowering toward the curtain. I kept feeling Rosa’s grip around my wrist.
“What did Carla find?” I asked.
Nora glanced toward the small conference room. “She wants to show you herself.”
Inside, Carla Ruiz had spread photographs across the table. The balcony appeared in sections: the cracked stone, the broken edge, the courtyard below. In one image, a narrow line of damage ran along the underside of the ledge.
“See this?” Carla tapped the photograph. “The fresh break is here. But this discoloration is older. It suggests the stone had been stressed before today.”
“By what?”
“I don't know yet.” She looked at me, not at Evan. “That’s why the repair records matter. And why the curtain matters.”
My throat tightened around the word.
Carla’s expression stayed professional. “I’m not asking you to hand it over. I’m asking whether it’s still sealed.”
“Yes.”
“Keep it that way. If you decide to submit it, do so through the county office. Don’t let anyone from the family handle it.”
Evan’s gaze dropped to the evidence bag, then returned to Carla. “Would a photograph be enough for the initial file?”
“For now,” Carla said. “But if this becomes a criminal investigation, the original may matter.”
I expected him to tell me what to do next. Instead, he waited.
That silence gave me room to breathe.
After Carla left, Evan gathered the photographs into a neat stack. “I can make copies for your records.”
“I don't want you carrying the evidence.”
“I won't.”
“I mean any of it. Not the bag, not the sealed strip, not the photographs once they show the fabric.”
He nodded. “Understood.”
His agreement should have relieved me. Instead, it made my eyes burn.
He noticed but didn't reach for me. “I can leave.”
I looked at the chair across from him. “No.”
He stayed standing.
“I don't want you to leave,” I said. “I want you to stop offering help in ways that make me feel like I owe you something.”
His face changed slightly—not hurt, exactly. Attention.
“I haven't meant to do that.”
“I know. That’s why I’m telling you before I resent you for it.”
A pause settled between us. The air conditioner clicked on.
Evan pulled out the chair but didn't sit until I did. “Tell me what help you want.”
I placed both wrapped hands flat on the table. “Copies of the inspection photographs. A copy of the incident file when the county releases it. And if you find out where the repair records are kept, tell me. Don't call Daniel. Don't go to the house. Don't speak for me.”
“Okay.”
“And don't ask me to trust you.”
“I won't.”
The answer came without hesitation.
I studied him. “That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
For the first time since the balcony broke, I felt the pressure in my chest ease without anyone promising me safety.
That evening, Nora brought the copied photographs to my apartment. Evan had left them at the front desk in a plain envelope. No note. No request to see me.
I spread them across the table beneath the lamp. The balcony looked different in each frame, as if the damage changed depending on what I feared it might reveal.
The older stress line ran beneath the broken edge, partly hidden by dust. Carla had marked it with a small red arrow.
I reached for the photograph, then stopped.
My hands were shaking.
I didn’t want to touch another piece of that house. I didn’t want stone dust under my nails, or the smell of Margaret’s dark clothes, or Daniel’s light shirt bending over me with the knife in his hand.
But evidence didn't become less true because I was afraid to look at it.
I picked up the photograph.
A faint streak crossed the lower edge of the balcony. It wasn't part of the break. It looked like something had scraped across the stone before the collapse.
I placed the curtain evidence bag beside the photograph without opening it.
The fabric had caught me. The fabric had also been cut.
The balcony might explain the fall. The curtain could explain what happened after.
A knock sounded.
I froze.
Nora called from the hallway, “It’s me.”
I opened the door only after checking the chain. She held a folder and a paper cup.
“Evan dropped these off,” she said. “He said you might want the county contact sheet.”
I accepted the folder. “Did he say anything else?”
“No.”
Nora looked past me at the photographs. “You don’t have to do this tonight.”
“If I wait until I’m less afraid, I might never do it.”
She didn't argue. She set the coffee on the counter and left me with the door locked behind her.
I opened the folder. The county office number was highlighted. Beneath it, Evan had written one sentence in plain block letters:
Ask for the repair history under the property address, not the family name.
I read it twice.
Then I called.
The clerk told me the records could be requested in the morning. She also said an older permit had been closed without a final inspection. She couldn't discuss more over the phone, but she gave me the reference number.
I wrote it down in my dated record.
10:42 p.m.—County repair permit may have closed without final inspection. Request records under property address.
My phone buzzed before I could put it away.
Daniel.
I watched his name light the screen until it stopped.
A minute later, a message appeared.
You’re making this worse. Come home before strangers decide what happened to you.
I took a screenshot and added it to the record.
Then I sent Evan one message.
I need copies of the repair permit and a way to request them without Daniel knowing.
His reply came several minutes later.
I can find the public request process. You submit it yourself.
I stared at those words.
Not I’ll handle it.
Not Send me your information.
You submit it yourself.
I set the phone down, then picked it up again.
Thank you.
His answer was simple.
You’re welcome.
Outside, a car moved slowly along the clinic drive before continuing toward the county road. I couldn't see the driver through the dark glass.
I locked the deadbolt, closed the curtains, and returned to the table.
May you like
The photographs remained where I had left them.
I was still afraid. But fear no longer made every decision for me.
