Chapter 5
Damian's hand trembled so violently that he nearly dropped his phone. He paced the length of his penthouse living room—the same living room where I'd served him breakfast every morning for five years.
"That's impossible," he hissed. "The footage was airtight. I paid a fortune to make it look legitimate."
"Well, your father-in-law is a retired homicide detective, Damian. You knew this."
"He's a senile old man!"
"A senile old man who apparently pulled maintenance records, cross-referenced shell companies, and tracked down the truck's registration history in less than seventy-two hours." The attorney paused. "This is serious. If the investigation reopens—"
"Then make sure it doesn't!" Damian's voice cracked.
"I'm your lawyer, not a magician. My advice? Get ahead of this. Cooperate with the police. Answer their questions willingly. Refusing will only make you look guilty."
After the call ended, Damian hurled his phone across the room. It shattered against the marble fireplace—the same fireplace I'd decorated with our wedding photos.
Those photos were already gone, I noticed. Replaced with abstract art that probably cost more than my funeral.
Within the hour, Damian was at the hospital, sitting at Sienna's bedside. She'd been moved from the ICU to a private recovery room, though her heart rate still fluctuated unpredictably.
"Richard is digging," Damian said without preamble. "He went to the police."
Sienna's face went ashen. "What? How? You said it was handled!"
"It was handled! The old bastard pulled records that shouldn't have been accessible to a civilian!"
"So what do we do?"
"My lawyer says to cooperate. Play the grieving husband who wants answers too."
Sienna shook her head slowly. "Damian, if they reopen the case, they'll find the driver. If they find the driver—"
"They won't find him. He's gone. I made sure of that."
But I could see the doubt in Damian's eyes. The same doubt that was now gnawing at his perfectly controlled facade.
Sienna clutched her chest again. The monitor beside her bed beeped erratically for a moment before settling.
"It's doing it again," she whispered. "The heart. It's like... it's fighting me."
"Stop saying that. It's just your body adjusting."
"No." Sienna looked up at Damian, and for the first time, I saw genuine fear in her eyes. "It hates me. I can feel it."
Good. I pressed my spectral hand against Sienna's chest—right where my heart beat inside her body. Reject her. You don't belong to her. You never did.
The monitor beeped faster. Sienna winced.
Damian pressed the call button for the nurse.
Meanwhile, my father wasn't sleeping. At his small apartment across town—the same apartment where I grew up—he sat at his old oak desk surrounded by papers, highlighters, and photographs.
Mom's health had deteriorated sharply since my funeral. She barely ate. She rarely spoke. Most days, she just sat in my childhood bedroom, holding my old stuffed rabbit and whispering my name.
But Dad channeled his grief into purpose. Every night after Mom fell asleep, he worked until dawn.
He'd already mapped out the entire network—Greyline Security, Blackwell Holdings, offshore accounts, the ghost driver, the suspiciously expedited organ donation process. Each thread connected back to Damian.
That night, Dad pinned one final photograph to his evidence board. It was Damian and Sienna, captured by a private investigator at the hospital three days after my death. In the photo, Damian was kissing Sienna's hand, his face split with a grin no grieving widower would ever wear.
Dad stared at the photo for a long time. Then he picked up his phone and dialed Detective Morrison.
"I have more."
"That's impossible," he hissed. "The footage was airtight. I paid a fortune to make it look legitimate."
"Well, your father-in-law is a retired homicide detective, Damian. You knew this."
"He's a senile old man!"
"A senile old man who apparently pulled maintenance records, cross-referenced shell companies, and tracked down the truck's registration history in less than seventy-two hours." The attorney paused. "This is serious. If the investigation reopens—"
"Then make sure it doesn't!" Damian's voice cracked.
"I'm your lawyer, not a magician. My advice? Get ahead of this. Cooperate with the police. Answer their questions willingly. Refusing will only make you look guilty."
After the call ended, Damian hurled his phone across the room. It shattered against the marble fireplace—the same fireplace I'd decorated with our wedding photos.
Those photos were already gone, I noticed. Replaced with abstract art that probably cost more than my funeral.
Within the hour, Damian was at the hospital, sitting at Sienna's bedside. She'd been moved from the ICU to a private recovery room, though her heart rate still fluctuated unpredictably.
"Richard is digging," Damian said without preamble. "He went to the police."
Sienna's face went ashen. "What? How? You said it was handled!"
"It was handled! The old bastard pulled records that shouldn't have been accessible to a civilian!"
"So what do we do?"
"My lawyer says to cooperate. Play the grieving husband who wants answers too."
Sienna shook her head slowly. "Damian, if they reopen the case, they'll find the driver. If they find the driver—"
"They won't find him. He's gone. I made sure of that."
But I could see the doubt in Damian's eyes. The same doubt that was now gnawing at his perfectly controlled facade.
Sienna clutched her chest again. The monitor beside her bed beeped erratically for a moment before settling.
"It's doing it again," she whispered. "The heart. It's like... it's fighting me."
"Stop saying that. It's just your body adjusting."
"No." Sienna looked up at Damian, and for the first time, I saw genuine fear in her eyes. "It hates me. I can feel it."
Good. I pressed my spectral hand against Sienna's chest—right where my heart beat inside her body. Reject her. You don't belong to her. You never did.
The monitor beeped faster. Sienna winced.
Damian pressed the call button for the nurse.
Meanwhile, my father wasn't sleeping. At his small apartment across town—the same apartment where I grew up—he sat at his old oak desk surrounded by papers, highlighters, and photographs.
Mom's health had deteriorated sharply since my funeral. She barely ate. She rarely spoke. Most days, she just sat in my childhood bedroom, holding my old stuffed rabbit and whispering my name.
But Dad channeled his grief into purpose. Every night after Mom fell asleep, he worked until dawn.
He'd already mapped out the entire network—Greyline Security, Blackwell Holdings, offshore accounts, the ghost driver, the suspiciously expedited organ donation process. Each thread connected back to Damian.
That night, Dad pinned one final photograph to his evidence board. It was Damian and Sienna, captured by a private investigator at the hospital three days after my death. In the photo, Damian was kissing Sienna's hand, his face split with a grin no grieving widower would ever wear.
Dad stared at the photo for a long time. Then he picked up his phone and dialed Detective Morrison.
"I have more."