Chapter 6
Detective Morrison arrived at my father's apartment at 6 AM. He'd barely gotten any sleep either—my father's evidence had kept him up all night.
Dad spread the new documents across the kitchen table while Mom shuffled past in the hallway. She didn't seem to register Morrison's presence at all. She just murmured my name and drifted back into my old bedroom.
Morrison watched her go, then turned to my father. Something hardened in the detective's expression.
"Show me," he said.
Dad pointed to the photograph of Damian and Sienna. "This was taken four days after my daughter's death. That woman—Sienna Cole—received my daughter's heart in a transplant."
"And she's Blackwell's..."
"College girlfriend. They dated for two years before he married Arabella." Dad tapped another document. "Six months before the accident, Sienna was diagnosed with a rare cardiac condition. She needed a transplant. Here's where it gets interesting."
He pulled out medical records—records he'd obtained through channels I didn't want to think about.
"My daughter had a full cardiac screening eight months ago. Ordered by Damian. He told her it was part of a couples' wellness package at his private clinic." Dad's voice wavered for just a moment. "The clinic forwarded her results to Sienna's cardiologist."
Morrison sat down slowly. "He was shopping for a match."
"He was shopping for a match."
The detective ran his hand over his face. "Christ."
"There's more." Dad pulled out bank records. "Damian moved $450,000 through three shell companies in the two months leading up to the accident. $200,000 went to the security camera company. $150,000 went to an untraceable account in the Caymans—likely payment for the truck driver. And $100,000 went directly to Dr. Marcus Webb."
"Who's Webb?"
"The surgeon who performed the transplant." Dad's eyes were hollow. "He was also the one who declared my daughter brain-dead."
Morrison stood up abruptly. "I need to bring this to my captain. Today."
After the detective left, Dad sat alone at the kitchen table. His hands shook as he stared at the web of connections he'd drawn—lines and arrows all converging on one name.
Damian Blackwell.
"I'm going to get him, Elly," Dad whispered to the empty room. "I promise you. I'm going to get him."
I was right there beside him. I pressed my incorporeal hand against his shoulder, wishing with every fiber of my being that he could feel me.
I think he did. Because he closed his eyes, took a shuddering breath, and whispered, "I know you're here, sweetheart. I know."
That afternoon, Sienna had another cardiac episode.
The rejection was escalating. Despite maximum immunosuppressant doses, her body kept attacking the transplanted heart. Each episode was longer, more violent than the last.
Her cardiologist—not Dr. Webb, who had suspiciously taken a leave of absence—gathered his team for an emergency consultation.
"I've never seen anything like this," the doctor muttered, reviewing her charts. "The tissue match is excellent. The surgical technique was flawless. There's no medical reason for this level of rejection."
One of the younger residents—a woman with sharp eyes—spoke up. "Has anyone looked into the donor's medical history? Full psychological workup?"
The room fell silent.
"The heart is just an organ," the lead cardiologist said dismissively.
But the resident pressed on. "There are documented cases of cellular memory in transplant recipients. Personality changes, food preferences, even phobias transferred from donor to recipient. If the donor experienced extreme trauma at the time of death—"
"That's pseudoscience."
"The rejection is unprecedented. We need to consider all possibilities."
That night, Sienna woke up screaming.
Damian rushed to her bedside. "What? What happened?"
Sienna was drenched in sweat, her hospital gown plastered to her skin. Her eyes were wild—feral, almost.
"I saw her," Sienna gasped. "I saw Arabella. She was inside me. She was screaming."
Dad spread the new documents across the kitchen table while Mom shuffled past in the hallway. She didn't seem to register Morrison's presence at all. She just murmured my name and drifted back into my old bedroom.
Morrison watched her go, then turned to my father. Something hardened in the detective's expression.
"Show me," he said.
Dad pointed to the photograph of Damian and Sienna. "This was taken four days after my daughter's death. That woman—Sienna Cole—received my daughter's heart in a transplant."
"And she's Blackwell's..."
"College girlfriend. They dated for two years before he married Arabella." Dad tapped another document. "Six months before the accident, Sienna was diagnosed with a rare cardiac condition. She needed a transplant. Here's where it gets interesting."
He pulled out medical records—records he'd obtained through channels I didn't want to think about.
"My daughter had a full cardiac screening eight months ago. Ordered by Damian. He told her it was part of a couples' wellness package at his private clinic." Dad's voice wavered for just a moment. "The clinic forwarded her results to Sienna's cardiologist."
Morrison sat down slowly. "He was shopping for a match."
"He was shopping for a match."
The detective ran his hand over his face. "Christ."
"There's more." Dad pulled out bank records. "Damian moved $450,000 through three shell companies in the two months leading up to the accident. $200,000 went to the security camera company. $150,000 went to an untraceable account in the Caymans—likely payment for the truck driver. And $100,000 went directly to Dr. Marcus Webb."
"Who's Webb?"
"The surgeon who performed the transplant." Dad's eyes were hollow. "He was also the one who declared my daughter brain-dead."
Morrison stood up abruptly. "I need to bring this to my captain. Today."
After the detective left, Dad sat alone at the kitchen table. His hands shook as he stared at the web of connections he'd drawn—lines and arrows all converging on one name.
Damian Blackwell.
"I'm going to get him, Elly," Dad whispered to the empty room. "I promise you. I'm going to get him."
I was right there beside him. I pressed my incorporeal hand against his shoulder, wishing with every fiber of my being that he could feel me.
I think he did. Because he closed his eyes, took a shuddering breath, and whispered, "I know you're here, sweetheart. I know."
That afternoon, Sienna had another cardiac episode.
The rejection was escalating. Despite maximum immunosuppressant doses, her body kept attacking the transplanted heart. Each episode was longer, more violent than the last.
Her cardiologist—not Dr. Webb, who had suspiciously taken a leave of absence—gathered his team for an emergency consultation.
"I've never seen anything like this," the doctor muttered, reviewing her charts. "The tissue match is excellent. The surgical technique was flawless. There's no medical reason for this level of rejection."
One of the younger residents—a woman with sharp eyes—spoke up. "Has anyone looked into the donor's medical history? Full psychological workup?"
The room fell silent.
"The heart is just an organ," the lead cardiologist said dismissively.
But the resident pressed on. "There are documented cases of cellular memory in transplant recipients. Personality changes, food preferences, even phobias transferred from donor to recipient. If the donor experienced extreme trauma at the time of death—"
"That's pseudoscience."
"The rejection is unprecedented. We need to consider all possibilities."
That night, Sienna woke up screaming.
Damian rushed to her bedside. "What? What happened?"
Sienna was drenched in sweat, her hospital gown plastered to her skin. Her eyes were wild—feral, almost.
"I saw her," Sienna gasped. "I saw Arabella. She was inside me. She was screaming."