After His Mistress Poisoned Our Daughter, I Exposed Her

The needle slips through silk like a whisper. In, out, in, out. My Capitol Hill studio smells like coffee gone cold and the lavender sachets I keep near my workbench—the same scent I used to tuck into Maisy's crib. I don't think about that. Not while I'm working.

My phone buzzes on the table. I ignore it. The commissioned piece spread across my lap needs another three hours of stitching before the roses on one side mirror the thorns on the other. Double-sided embroidery doesn't forgive mistakes. You pull one thread wrong and the whole pattern unravels.

The phone buzzes again. Then again.

I set down the hoop and pick up the phone. Seventeen notifications. All from the same trending tag. My thumb hovers over the screen. Something cold moves through my chest before I even tap it open.

The video loads. A penthouse I don't recognize—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Elliott Bay, furniture that costs more than my annual studio rent. A woman's laugh fills my earbuds, bright and performative. She's draped over a man on a white sofa, her left hand extended toward the camera so the ring catches the light.

"Oh my God, you guys, I can't believe this is real!" Her voice is breathy, delighted. The face is older now, sharper, but I'd know it anywhere. Angelique Flores. The girl I pulled out of poverty. The girl I welcomed into my home.

The girl who murdered my daughter.

She tilts the ring, and the camera zooms in. Diamonds. Too many diamonds. "He surprised me last night at our favorite restaurant. I literally cried. Didn't I, babe?"

The man beside her smiles. Wyatt Richardson. My ex-husband. The orphan my mother fed at our table. The man I built from nothing.

He doesn't speak, just pulls her closer. She settles against his chest like she belongs there.

The chat scrolls too fast to read. Congratulations. Heart emojis. *You two are goals.* Someone asks how they met.

Angelique's smile widens. "Oh, it's kind of a crazy story. Wyatt was in this really miserable marriage—like, toxic situation, you know? And I was working for this charity program, and we just... connected. I helped him see that he deserved better. That he deserved to be happy."

My hand tightens around the phone.

"It wasn't easy," she continues, her voice dropping into something meant to sound vulnerable. "There was a lot of drama. His ex was... difficult. But we got through it together, and now look at us!" She kisses his jaw. The chat explodes with *awwww* and *true love*.

Wyatt's voice, when he finally speaks, is the same smooth tone he used to pitch investors. "I'm the luckiest guy in the world."

The needle in my other hand pricks my thumb. A dot of blood wells up, bright red against my skin. I watch it spread for a moment before setting the phone down carefully on the table. My hands aren't shaking. They should be. They were three years ago, when I signed the divorce papers in a lawyer's office that smelled like leather and lies. When I walked away from that house with nothing but Maisy's baby blanket and my mother's embroidery kit.

But tonight, my hands are steady.

I walk to the workbench and open the bottom drawer. It sticks—I haven't touched it in months. Inside is a manila folder I made myself put away because looking at it felt like drowning. Maisy's pediatric records. Her allergy documentation, signed and dated by Dr. Patel. The formula brand I used, the one without nuts, the one I checked three times every morning. My own handwritten notes from those final days, scribbled while I was still trying to understand how it happened. How my baby girl could just... stop breathing.

The doctors said it was a tragic accident. Contamination at the factory, maybe. A one-in-a-million chance.

But I remember Angelique's face at the funeral. How she stood beside Wyatt with her hand on his arm. How she didn't cry. How her eyes were dry and calm and just a little bit satisfied.

I spread the papers across the workbench. Touch the silver thimble hanging from the chain around my neck—my mother's thimble, the one she wore while teaching me that every stitch matters, that you can't rush beauty, that patience always wins.

I open my laptop and pull up the charity scholarship database. I'm still listed as the founding donor. I still have access. I type *Angelique Flores* into the search bar.

The file loads. I've looked at it before, years ago, back when I thought I was saving someone. But tonight I look closer. The application photo. The girl staring back at me has Angelique's features, but softer. Younger. Her eyes are different—hopeful instead of calculating. I zoom in.

Not the same person.

I flip through the rest of the file. The essay. The transcripts. The recommendation letters. Everything is slightly off, like a pattern stitched with the wrong tension.

I pull out a red pen and circle the photograph. Beneath it, I write one word in capital letters: *LUISA.*

Then I pick up my phone and dial the number I researched two weeks ago, just in case. Just in case I ever got brave enough or angry enough or clearheaded enough to stop letting the past bury me.

Marcus Webb answers on the second ring. His voice is flat, professional. "Webb Investigations."

"I need someone found," I say. "And I need to know what happened to her."

There's a pause. "I'm listening."

"Her name was Luisa Flores. And I think her sister killed her too."