The thought made bile rise in my throat. I turned away, one hand braced against the wall, fighting nausea.
The scene became a hive of activity around me. I was a statue in the center, useless, while professionals did their work.
Forensics moved in with their kits and cameras. A woman in latex gloves crouched by the hair clip, photographing it from multiple angles before carefully bagging it. Evidence marker #1 was placed where it had been.
Another tech took samples of the blood. Q-tip, swab, seal. Evidence marker #2.
They dusted for prints. The black powder coated everything. Doorknobs, the coffee table, the light switches. A camera flash went off, illuminating the room in stark white. Then another. And another.
This was my daughter's kidnapping. Catalogued. Photographed. Reduced to numbered placards and labeled bags.
The detective next to me, Ramirez, held a notepad. Ready to take a statement.
"Let's start with the basics," he said, pen poised. "The child. Daisy Spencer. Age five. Date of birth?"
I rattled it off. “May 3rd.” Her astrological sign was Taurus. Elena had joked that she was stubborn likeone. She loved unicorns and the color purple and stories where the princess saved herself.
"Last seen wearing?"
"Unicorn pajamas. Pink. With—" My voice cracked. "With purple unicorns."
He wrote it down. Moved on. Professional. Efficient.
"The woman, Anna Stewart." He looked up. “A middle name?"
The question hung in the air.
I stared at him. I opened my mouth and then closed it.
The silence stretched. I became uncomfortable. Ramirez's pen was still poised, waiting. James, standing beside me, glanced over. I saw his brow furrow.
"Mr. Spencer? Her middle name?"
"I..." The word stuck in my throat like broken glass. "I don't know. I have no idea if she even has one."
I didn't know. I wanted to beat myself for not even asking her what her full name was.
Ramirez's pen paused for just a fraction of a second. He didn't look judgmental, but the pause was there. A beat of acknowledgment.
"That's okay," Ramirez said smoothly, moving on. "We'll get it from employment records. Date of birth?"
I gave it. “December 14th.” I only knew that because I'd seen it on her driver's license in surveillance photos.
As I recited facts, such as her height, weight, haircolor, and eye color, the irony became a corrosive acid eating through my composure.
I knew which grocery store she frequented. I knew she bought the cheapest coffee brand. I knew she took her tea with honey. I knew she was afraid of thunderstorms. I knew she cried during sad movies, even when she tried to hide it.
I knew the exact shade of fear in her eyes.
But I didn't know if she had a middle name.
The man who had mapped her trauma, who had surveilled her for nine months, who had brought her into his home as part of a revenge plot, was stumped by a basic biographical fact you'd ask on a first date.
"Mr. Spencer?" Ramirez's voice pulled me back. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I’m fine," I lied. My words tasted like blood.
We were outside, James on his phone, me leaning against a police cruiser trying to remember how to breathe, when he got the call.
