“Were you there?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
He stared at me.
For the first time, fear entered his face.
Not much.
Just enough to sharpen his voice.
“Because your mother told me about the switch before I left.”
“When did you leave?”
“Around midnight.”
The traffic footage showed his car leaving our street at 4:41 a.m.
The first explosion occurred at 4:49.
I picked up the pen and turned it slowly between my fingers.
“You said you were at work.”
“I was.”
“But you left here at midnight?”
“I stopped by before work.”
“Then Mom was alive when you left?”
His jaw flexed.
“Yes.”
“And the gas was already leaking?”
“She said she smelled something.”
“Why didn’t you call anyone?”
He reached for the folder.
“That’s enough.
You need rest.”
I put my hand on the documents before he could close them.
His eyes dropped to my fingers.
“You said I needed to sign.”
“We can do it later.”
“I thought you wanted to protect me.”
“I do.”
“Then tell me why your car left eight minutes before the explosion.”
Silence filled the room.
My father did not look toward the door.
He looked at the bed rail.
He had finally noticed the recorder.
His hand moved.
Detective Ortiz stepped out of the bathroom before he could reach it.
“Don’t,” she said.
My father recoiled as though she had struck him.
The grief returned instantly.
It was astonishing to watch.
One second he was cornered.
The next he was a bereaved husband being cruelly interrogated beside his injured daughter.
“What are you doing in here?” he demanded.
“She’s medicated.
She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
Ortiz moved between him and the recorder.
“She knew enough to ask why you identified an ignition point that hasn’t been made public.”
His face lost color.
“I guessed.”
“You also said you left the house at midnight.
Traffic footage places your car on this street at 4:41.”
“I came back.”
“Why?”
