Detective Morrison called just after seven, his voice carrying a satisfaction I hadn't heard before. "Mrs. Hale, I wanted you to know—we have her in custody. Bianca Ashford was apprehended at a motel about forty miles from where Lisa was found."
Relief washed through me, so intense my knees nearly buckled. "You caught her?"
"She's being transported to the precinct now for processing. Given the circumstances, I thought you and your husband might want to be present when she's brought in," he paused. "It's not required, but some families find it helps with closure."
I looked at Xander, who had been awake beside Lisa's hospital bed when the call came. His face was drawn, exhausted, but something fierce burned in his eyes when I mouthed the words: They caught her.
"We'll be there," I said.
Lisa was still sleeping peacefully, her color better than the night before, her breathing steady and calm. The nurse assured us she was stable enough to be left briefly with a child psychologist who would stay with her until we returned. It wasn't ideal—nothing about this situation was ideal—but I needed to see Bianca in handcuffs. I needed to watch her face consequences for what she'd done.
The precinct was a short drive from the hospital. Xander held my hand the entire way, his grip tight enough to leave marks, his jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. He hadn't spoken much since Lisa's comment about "Daddy doing bad things," and I could feel the guilt radiating off him like heat from a furnace.
We'll talk about it, I reminded myself. After Bianca is locked away where she can never touch our family again.
Detective Morrison met us in the lobby, his expression professional but not unkind. "They should be bringing her through the back entrance any minute. I can take you to the processing area if you'd like, or you can wait here."
"We'd like to see her brought in," I said before Xander could respond. "I want her to know we're here. I want her to see what she failed to destroy."
The detective nodded, leading us down a corridor that smelled of stale coffee and industrial cleaner. Through a reinforced window, I could see the intake area—a stark room with fluorescent lights and metal benches bolted to the floor.
We waited. My heart pounded against my ribs, adrenaline surging despite my exhaustion. Xander stood beside me, his body tense as a coiled spring, his eyes fixed on the door through which Bianca would enter.
The door opened.
Two officers flanked her, their hands firm on her upper arms, but Bianca walked between them with her chin held high. Her clothes were rumpled, her usually perfect hair disheveled, but her posture remained impeccable. Even in handcuffs, she carried herself like a queen being escorted to a throne rather than a criminal being processed for kidnapping.
Her gaze swept the room, cataloging faces, assessing threats. When her eyes found mine through the window, she stopped walking.
The officers tried to urge her forward, but she planted her feet, her attention locked onto me with unsettling calm. Something flickered in her expression—not fear, not regret, but satisfaction. The kind of satisfaction a chess player might feel after sacrificing a piece to set up a checkmate.
"Move along, ma'am," one of the officers said.
Bianca ignored him. Her lips curved into a smile that made my blood run cold, and when she spoke, her voice carried clearly through the reinforced glass.
"You don’t have any fucking idea of what your lovely husband did!"
The words sliced through my relief like glass, sharp and unexpected and devastating in their precision. I felt Xander's grip tighten instantly beside me, his fingers crushing mine, his breath catching in his throat.
I turned to look at him.
And I saw it—the flash of horror on his face. Not confusion, anger, or righteous indignation of a man falsely accused. Pure, unmistakable horror, the kind that comes from hearing a secret spoken aloud that was never meant to be revealed.
"Xander?" My voice came out barely above a whisper. "What is she talking about?"
He didn't answer. His eyes remained fixed on Bianca, who was being dragged away now, the officers finally overcoming her resistance. But she kept her gaze on me as they pulled her through the doorway, watching me with terrible patience, as if she'd left something behind on purpose.
A grenade with the pin pulled. Or, a bomb set to detonate on a delay.
"Xander," I turned to face him fully, pulling my hand from his grip. "What did she mean?"
"Not here," his voice was rough, strained. "Please, Daphne, not here."
"Then where? When?" I could hear my voice rising, the careful control I'd maintained through days of terror finally cracking. "You've been keeping secrets from me. I've known it since this whole nightmare started—the way you flinched when Lisa said you did bad things, the guilt you can't hide no matter how hard you try. What did you do?"
"It's complicated."
"Uncomplicate it."
Detective Morrison appeared beside us, his expression uncertain. "Mr. and Mrs. Hale? Is everything alright?"
"Fine," Xander said quickly. "We're fine. Thank you for letting us know about the arrest."
"Of course. We'll need formal statements from both of you, but that can wait until tomorrow if you need time to—"
"Tomorrow is fine," Xander's hand found my elbow, guiding me toward the exit with barely concealed urgency. "We need to get back to our daughter."
I let him steer me out of the precinct, through the lobby, into the harsh morning sunlight. But the moment we reached the car, I stopped moving.
"Tell me," my voice was flat, dangerous. "Right now, Xander, or I swear to God I will walk back into that precinct and ask her myself."
"She's manipulating you. That's what she does—she finds the cracks and pries them open until everything falls apart."
"Maybe she is, but manipulation works best when it's built on truth," I crossed my arms, refusing to move. "What truth is she building on?"
Xander ran his hands through his hair, the gesture so desperate it hurt to watch. For a long moment, he said nothing—just stood there, his shoulders hunched, his face twisted with something that looked like grief.
"There was a man," he finally said. "A long time ago, before I built the company. His name was Marcus Chen, my business partner. We started together—two nobody kids with big dreams and no money." Xander's voice cracked. "He died in a car accident fifteen years ago. Brake failure on a mountain road."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy with implication.
"And?" I pressed, though part of me didn't want to hear the answer.
"And Bianca claims I was responsible," he looked at me then, his eyes red-rimmed and desperate. "But I swear to you, Daphne, I didn't kill him. I didn't even know about the brake failure until the police report came out."
"Why didn't you tell me this before?" I looked at him but I couldn’t believe it was that truth I was actually asking for.
"If I'd told you about Bianca's blackmail, about the accusations, you would have worried. You had enough to deal with already."
"So you decided to handle it alone," the anger was rising now, mixing with the fear and exhaustion into something toxic. "How did that work out, Xander?"
He flinched as if I'd struck him. "Not well, obviously."
"Not well at all. And you know what? I don’t believe you!"
I climbed into the car without another word, my mind reeling with everything I'd learned. Bianca was in custody, and Lisa was safe, but Xander's secrets were still there, and I could swear there was something else, something deeper than poor Marcus who accidentally died in a car crash. I wasn't sure yet if I could forgive Xander for lying to me on that.
The drive back to the hospital passed in silence, the weight of unspoken words filling the space between us like smoke.