Chapter 4
I signed my life away without even knowing it.
But there was one thing Damian didn't know—something I'd done just two weeks before my death that could unravel everything.
Sienna shifted uncomfortably in her hospital bed, pressing a hand to her chest.
"It feels strange," she murmured.
"What does?"
"The heart. Sometimes it... races. For no reason. Like it's angry."
Damian frowned. "The doctors said some irregularity is normal during recovery."
"No, it's different." Sienna's eyes went distant. "It's like it knows."
A chill ran through my spectral form. Could she feel me? Could my heart somehow sense the betrayal it was now trapped inside?
The next morning, Sienna's monitors began screaming.
Her heart rate had spiked to 180 beats per minute—then dropped to 40—then spiked again. Nurses flooded the ICU room. Damian was shoved into the hallway, where he paced like a caged animal.
"What's happening?" he demanded when a doctor finally emerged.
"We're running tests. It appears her body may be showing early signs of rejection."
"Rejection? You said the match was perfect!"
"The tissue compatibility was ideal, yes. But transplant rejection can occur for reasons we don't fully understand. We're adjusting her immunosuppressants now."
Damian slammed his fist against the wall after the doctor left. I stood beside him—unseen, unheard—and for the first time since my death, I smiled.
Reject him, I whispered to my heart. Reject them both.
Two days later, my father walked into the precinct that handled my accident case. He carried a manila folder tucked under his arm and wore the expression of a man who hadn't slept in days.
"I want to speak with the investigating officer on the Arabella Blackwell case," he told the desk sergeant.
Detective Morrison was a stocky man with a thick mustache and an air of permanent exhaustion. He gestured Dad into his cluttered office.
"Mr. Thornton. I'm sorry for your loss. What can I do for you?"
Dad opened his folder and spread its contents across Morrison's desk—photographs, highlighted documents, handwritten notes.
"My daughter didn't run a red light."
Morrison leaned forward. "Sir, the traffic camera footage clearly shows—"
"The traffic camera at that intersection was replaced three weeks before the accident. I pulled the maintenance records. The new camera was installed by a company called Greyline Security." Dad tapped one of his documents. "Greyline Security received a payment of $200,000 from a shell company called Blackwell Holdings two days before the installation."
Morrison's eyebrows rose.
"My daughter was an impeccable driver. Twenty years, zero infractions. Zero accidents. And you're telling me she suddenly ran a red light at an intersection she drove through every single day?"
Dad pulled out another sheet. "The truck that hit her—registered to a logistics company that went bankrupt three months ago. The driver vanished after the accident. No interview. No follow-up."
Morrison was quiet for a long moment. Then he pulled out a fresh notepad.
"Tell me everything, Mr. Thornton."
I hovered behind my father, watching him lay out his case with the methodical precision of a man who'd spent thirty years hunting criminals. Piece by piece, he was dismantling Damian's carefully constructed lie.
Dad couldn't hear me, but I said it anyway: "Get him, Dad. Make him pay."
That evening, Damian received a call from his attorney.
"We have a problem. Richard Thornton filed a formal request to reopen the accident investigation. He's claiming the traffic cameras were tampered with."
The color drained from Damian's face.
But there was one thing Damian didn't know—something I'd done just two weeks before my death that could unravel everything.
Sienna shifted uncomfortably in her hospital bed, pressing a hand to her chest.
"It feels strange," she murmured.
"What does?"
"The heart. Sometimes it... races. For no reason. Like it's angry."
Damian frowned. "The doctors said some irregularity is normal during recovery."
"No, it's different." Sienna's eyes went distant. "It's like it knows."
A chill ran through my spectral form. Could she feel me? Could my heart somehow sense the betrayal it was now trapped inside?
The next morning, Sienna's monitors began screaming.
Her heart rate had spiked to 180 beats per minute—then dropped to 40—then spiked again. Nurses flooded the ICU room. Damian was shoved into the hallway, where he paced like a caged animal.
"What's happening?" he demanded when a doctor finally emerged.
"We're running tests. It appears her body may be showing early signs of rejection."
"Rejection? You said the match was perfect!"
"The tissue compatibility was ideal, yes. But transplant rejection can occur for reasons we don't fully understand. We're adjusting her immunosuppressants now."
Damian slammed his fist against the wall after the doctor left. I stood beside him—unseen, unheard—and for the first time since my death, I smiled.
Reject him, I whispered to my heart. Reject them both.
Two days later, my father walked into the precinct that handled my accident case. He carried a manila folder tucked under his arm and wore the expression of a man who hadn't slept in days.
"I want to speak with the investigating officer on the Arabella Blackwell case," he told the desk sergeant.
Detective Morrison was a stocky man with a thick mustache and an air of permanent exhaustion. He gestured Dad into his cluttered office.
"Mr. Thornton. I'm sorry for your loss. What can I do for you?"
Dad opened his folder and spread its contents across Morrison's desk—photographs, highlighted documents, handwritten notes.
"My daughter didn't run a red light."
Morrison leaned forward. "Sir, the traffic camera footage clearly shows—"
"The traffic camera at that intersection was replaced three weeks before the accident. I pulled the maintenance records. The new camera was installed by a company called Greyline Security." Dad tapped one of his documents. "Greyline Security received a payment of $200,000 from a shell company called Blackwell Holdings two days before the installation."
Morrison's eyebrows rose.
"My daughter was an impeccable driver. Twenty years, zero infractions. Zero accidents. And you're telling me she suddenly ran a red light at an intersection she drove through every single day?"
Dad pulled out another sheet. "The truck that hit her—registered to a logistics company that went bankrupt three months ago. The driver vanished after the accident. No interview. No follow-up."
Morrison was quiet for a long moment. Then he pulled out a fresh notepad.
"Tell me everything, Mr. Thornton."
I hovered behind my father, watching him lay out his case with the methodical precision of a man who'd spent thirty years hunting criminals. Piece by piece, he was dismantling Damian's carefully constructed lie.
Dad couldn't hear me, but I said it anyway: "Get him, Dad. Make him pay."
That evening, Damian received a call from his attorney.
"We have a problem. Richard Thornton filed a formal request to reopen the accident investigation. He's claiming the traffic cameras were tampered with."
The color drained from Damian's face.