Page 42 of The Birthday Girl
V ega’s phone rattled against the stack of witness statements he had been staring at for forty minutes without turning a page. When he saw the name Morales flash across the screen, he snatched it up before the second vibration.
“Detective—” Static hissed through the line. “A therapist named Dr. Farrell just called about Tahlia Banks. Says her sister Danielle—” the connection cracked, “—is in danger.”
The pen in Vega’s hand snapped, blue ink bleeding across his palm as he lunged for his jacket.
“You called dispatch?”
“Saw you were investigating a case against Ms. Banks. Wanted you to know first.”
“Good,” Vega muttered. “I’m on my way now.” He ended the call and shoved the phone into his pocket. “Ramirez, grab your coat. Danielle Banks is under threat.”
Ramirez looked up, his brows rising at Vega’s clipped tone, but when he saw his jaw clenched and his eyes hard, he didn’t bother asking questions. He could see the urgency etched into every line of his partner’s face.
Within seconds, both detectives were moving through the precinct like fire had lit under them.
The lights above cast harsh shadows across the bullpen as officers stepped aside to let them pass.
Vega’s mind raced through every scrap of information he had on Tahlia Banks, each piece forming a picture darker than the last. The woman had seemed calculating during their brief encounter, but now he wondered if her composure had masked something far more sinister.
Ramirez matched his partner’s stride as they pushed through the glass doors leading to the parking garage.
He had noticed the way Vega’s hands trembled slightly when he mentioned Danielle Banks, a tell that spoke to the weight of the case.
Ramirez had worked enough jobs with Vega to recognize when his partner was running on more than instinct.
This was pressure, and Vega felt it pressing down hard.
The keys cut into Vega’s fist as the cruiser’s door slammed behind him. He started the engine, and once he was sure Ramirez was strapped inside, his tires bit into the asphalt, leaving rubber and the smell of burned tires behind as he accelerated into darkness.
When he turned onto Danielle’s street, his headlights swept over a sleek black Genesis parked in her driveway, polished and new.
Vega knew instantly it didn’t belong to Danielle.
From what he’d learned, she could barely keep her old car from falling apart, and she didn’t have a job that would afford her that kind of vehicle.
The cruiser lurched to a halt as Vega jammed it against the curb.
His boots hammered down the walkway, then up the porch steps, knuckles raised toward the door when a woman’s scream tore through the night, piercing enough to freeze him mid-motion.
His hand suspended in the air for half a second before he threw his weight sideways and banged his shoulder into the doorframe.
Wood splintered with a sound that mimicked the crack of breaking bones, and he stumbled into the entryway, the scene before him freezing his blood.
The house bore the stamp of violence. A coffee table lay overturned, its glass top fractured.
Blood smeared the wall, the arc high enough to suggest a hard swing, and a shoe, Danielle’s, by size, sat abandoned near the entrance.
He swept his gaze across the living room, cataloging the disarray. A picture frame lay face down in a pool of crimson, its shards biting into the rug. The air carried the copper bite of fresh blood that grew stronger as he moved toward the back of the house.
Another wet, rasping choke cut through the silence and drew him down the hall.
Vega removed his weapon and steadied it, every muscle taut as he rounded the corner into the bedroom.
The scene inside was pure chaos. Sheets hung half off the bed, soaked dark with blood as Danielle writhed weakly, her eyes wide with terror.
Tahlia’s arm locked around her, and her knife pressed hard against Danielle’s throat, the edge glinting under the crooked lamp’s jaundiced light.
“Drop the knife!” Vega barked, his voice filling the room. “It’s over.”
Tahlia’s head turned slowly, her gaze settling on him with a calm that made his skin crawl. “Over? Nothing is over until I say it is.”
Vega kept his weapon steady, his stance wide, and his voice measured. “You’ve got a choice right now. Put the knife down, and you live to see a courtroom. You keep pushing this, and the only thing waiting for you is a body bag.”
Tahlia’s lips curved, the faintest trace of a smile.
“The courtroom doesn’t scare me, Detective.
Neither does the morgue. Every move I made, and every life I took, was all rehearsal for this very moment.
” She pressed the blade harder against her sister’s throat, and she whimpered, her body trembling beneath the pressure.
“Do you know how long I’ve dreamed of watching the light leave her eyes? Since we shared a bedroom with pink wallpaper, and she’d wait until our parents were asleep to torture me.”
Vega felt a cold clarity settle over him. He cataloged the information the way he always did under pressure, then folded it into action. Questions could be left for later. Right now, weapons were drawn, and there was a life he could still save.
“Tahlia, I hear you. I hear what you’re saying about the past. That does not make her death any less final. It does not fix what happened. It only makes more of it permanent.”
She laughed, a thin, raw sound. “Fix? You think fixing anything matters? Fix is a word for people who hide behind broken promises.” Her fingers flexed on the handle.
“Maybe it is,” Vega said. “But listening matters. You can talk to me about whatever.”
“That’s what I have a therapist for. You’re a cop. Talking to you doesn’t benefit me. It helps you hammer the nail in my coffin. Do you think I’m stupid?” Tahlia shouted, spit flying from her mouth, making her look like a rabid dog.
Vega kept his weapon steady but softened his tone.
“I don’t think you’re stupid, Tahlia. You’re angry, and you’ve carried that anger longer than anyone should, but killing her doesn’t take it out of you.
It only buries you with it. If you want someone to hear you, then let her live, and you’ll have an audience. ”
Tahlia’s chest heaved, her eyes wild and unfocused, the knife trembling against Danielle’s throat. From beside them on the bed came a high, desperate wail. Tyricka’s cries cut through the air, frantic and piercing, and Vega’s gut twisted as Danielle’s terrified eyes flicked toward her daughter.
“Fuck an audience. They aren’t needed for this production.
I’ve never had one in my whole life. My parents ignored me the second she walked in the room, and the kids always chose her over me.
Everyone clapped for Danielle’s mediocre performances, but I’m the star of this show.
” Her lips peeled back over her teeth, the words snapping into a shriek.
“Don’t do this,” Vega urged, lowering his voice until it was almost a plea. “Think of the child. She’s right here, Tahlia. Don’t let her first memory be this. Let Danielle breathe. Let her walk out of here, and I swear to you—”
The rest of his statement was cut short by the blade.
Tahlia yanked it across her sister’s throat in one brutal sweep.
Danielle’s strangled scream collapsed into a gurgle, blood spilling down her chest and soaking the sheets in spreading blotches.
The baby shrieked louder, her tiny fists flailing above her head as blood splattered across her face.
Vega hit her as soon as the blade finished its path. He didn’t think about protocol or consequences in that instant. He drove his shoulder into Tahlia’s ribs, and the two of them collapsed onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs.
The knife spun away and vanished beneath the bedframe.
Tahlia clawed at him, nails raking his forearm, teeth bared as she thrashed under his weight.
She fought with raw, animal fury, but Vega tightened his grip and forced her arm behind her back until her strength broke.
Her body shuddered once, twice, and then sagged in a soft, terrible resignation.
Ramirez dropped to his knees, helping fold her second arm back, and together they locked the cuffs tight.
“Get me compresses!” Vega snapped, releasing Tahlia to get to Danielle.
Ramirez ripped the bedsheet and held it out to Vega.
Before grabbing it, Vega did the things that had been honed in him over years of practice. He searched for a pulse at the carotid. It was thin, no more than a thread. Then he felt it begin to fray beneath his fingertips.
He held pressure, and with his free hand, he keyed the radio. “Dispatch, this is Detective Vega. Female victim, massive neck wound. Pulse weak. Need EMS now.” His tone stayed clipped and even, no matter how much blood slid between his fingers.
The speaker crackled, and a calm voice replied, “Copy that, Detective. EMS is en route. ETA five minutes. Keep pressure on the wound.”
Ramirez grabbed Tyricka off the bed and shifted her high on his chest as her cries tore through the room. Her fists balled tight, pinching his shirt as she pressed her face into his shoulder.
“Let them know we also have an infant on scene. She appears to be unharmed, but hysterical,” he told Vega.
Vega pressed the radio button again. “Dispatch, be advised, we also have an infant on scene. Female, unharmed but distressed.”
The reply crackled back through the speaker. “Copy that, Detective. Infant noted. Medics will evaluate on arrival.”
Tyricka wailed louder, her sobs raw and choking, and Ramirez rocked her gently, murmuring under his breath, “You’re safe now, baby girl. I’ve got you.”
Beside him, Tahlia giggled and prayed in the same breath, the words breaking apart as though madness itself was speaking through her.