Chapter 6
The Mother's Silence
Ms. Miller is fragile and anxious, claiming ignorance. Harding senses her distress might stem from a deeper, unacknowledged knowledge.
The sterile scent of disinfectant clung to Ms. Miller’s skin, a stark contrast to the floral perfume she usually favored, the one Harding had noticed lingering in Mary’s empty bedroom. She sat on the edge of a meticulously arranged floral sofa, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white mountains against a landscape of pale skin. Her eyes, wide and a shade of watery blue that spoke of unshed tears, darted around the living room as if expecting a ghost to materialize from the chintz patterns.
“I… I don’t understand, Detective,” she whispered, her voice a thin, reedy thing that barely disturbed the heavy silence. “Mary wouldn’t just… leave. Not like this.”
Harding watched her, his gaze methodical, cataloging every tremor of her lip, every nervous twitch of her fingers. He’d seen grief before, raw and unvarnished, but this felt different. This was grief layered with something else, a thin veneer of distress that didn’t quite mask a deeper, more guarded emotion.
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