While she waited for the duty solicitor, Lena’s mind raced back to the park. She visualized the bench, the mud, the leaves. A detail struck her, sharp as a needle. The grass around the bench had been soaked from the morning rain. There were puddles everywhere. But the purse… “The purse was dry,” she whispered to herself.
When Sato came back in to bring her water, she grabbed his arm. “Listen to me. It rained at noon. The ground was soaked. But that leather? It wasn’t stained. There was no mud on the bottom.” Sato paused, his professional mask flickering. “Go on.” Lena described the cyclist again. “He passed me twice. Once before I found it, once after. He was wearing pale gloves. Who wears gloves for a bike delivery in May?”
Sato jotted something down, his expression shifting from boredom to genuine curiosity. “Pale gloves?” Lena nodded vigorously. “And the red bag. He was moving weirdly—not like he was in a hurry to deliver something, but like he was waiting.” For the first time since the handcuffs had clicked shut, Lena felt a spark of hope. She wasn’t just a victim; she was a witness.