Chapter 2 - The Name in the System
The hum of the ambulance engine filled the driveway, vibrating through the floorboards and rattling the glass in the front windows. Martinez did not look at me when he asked his next question; his gaze remained fixed on Jennifer, who finally shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her jaw tightening just a fraction.
"Jennifer Morrison," Martinez muttered, more to himself than to me. He brought the phone to his ear, tapping the screen with a thumb that looked as though it wanted to crush the device. "Get me dispatch. Route a code-three notification to precinct four. I need an immediate background check on a Washington state identity record, maiden name Morrison. Yes, right now."
"What is this about?" I demanded, standing up from Lily's side. My knees trembled, and for a second, the hallway tilted dangerously. "My daughter is dying on the floor, and you're running background checks?"
"Your daughter is suffering from acute sedative poisoning, Mr. Cooper," Martinez said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper as he stepped between me and Jennifer. "And the woman standing over there is not who you think she is. Not by a long shot."
Jennifer’s eyes narrowed. The indifferent, bored expression she had worn since I walked through the door finally fractured, replaced by a cold, calculating glitter. "You're making a mistake," she said, her voice smooth and devoid of panic. "The child had a cold. I gave her cough syrup."
"You said you gave her a few tablets of Benadryl," I snapped, turning on her with a fury that felt hot enough to burn my throat. "You said you punished her!"
"A slip of the tongue," Jennifer replied smoothly, taking a slow step backward toward the kitchen island. "Daniel, you're exhausted from your trip. You're not thinking clearly. Let the paramedics take her to the hospital, and we can discuss this later."
"No one is going anywhere until the backup units arrive," Martinez said, stepping forward and placing his hand firmly on the holster at his hip. He looked at his partner, a younger EMT named Sarah, who was already securing an oxygen mask over Lily's face. "Sarah, get the child to the stretcher. Load and go, but keep the radio open. I'm staying right here."
"Officer, what is going on?" Sarah asked, her eyes darting between Martinez and Jennifer.
"That's not Jennifer Morrison," Martinez said clearly, his voice echoing in the silent house. "That's Veronica Vance. And she's been wanted in three states for child endangerment and insurance fraud under a series of aliases."
The word fraud hung in the air like a physical blow. I looked at Jennifer—or Veronica—and realized with a sickening lurch in my stomach that I knew almost nothing about the woman I had married two years ago. We had met in a crowded Seattle coffee shop. She had told me she worked as a freelance graphic designer, that her parents had passed away in a car accident when she was young, and that she adored children.
Every word of it, fabricated. Every smile, a performance.
"You've got the wrong person," Veronica said, her voice dropping an octave, losing the sweet, melodic cadence I had grown accustomed to. In its place was a hard, sharp edge that chilled me to the bone. "You have no warrant, and you're interfering in a domestic matter."
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"A domestic matter?" Martinez laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "Lady, I worked paramedic and rescue out of King County for twelve years before I transferred to Seattle proper. I pulled files for the 'Blackwood Nanny' case five years ago. You left a trail of poisoned kids from Portland to Spokane before you vanished."
Before Veronica could answer, the wail of approaching police sirens cut through the neighborhood night. Red and blue strobe lights painted the living room walls in frantic, flashing strokes, reflecting off the glass of our family photographs—photographs of a life that had never actually existed.
