Chapter 7
Damian grabbed Sienna's shoulders. "It was just a nightmare. You're on heavy medication—"
"It wasn't a nightmare!" Sienna shoved him away with surprising force. "She was there! Inside my chest! She was screaming that she knows! She knows what we did!"
The heart monitor shrieked. Nurses burst in. Damian was forced back as the medical team surrounded Sienna, pushing sedatives into her IV line.
I stood at the foot of the bed and watched Sienna thrash against the restraints they applied. Her eyes locked onto the exact spot where I stood—and for one horrifying, exhilarating second, I knew she could see me.
Her scream split the air before the sedatives dragged her under.
The next morning, Detective Morrison showed up at Damian's penthouse with a warrant.
"Mr. Blackwell, we need you to come in for questioning."
Damian had rehearsed for this. He wore his grief like a costume—rumpled shirt, shadowed eyes, the perfect image of a man destroyed by loss.
"Of course," he said, his voice carefully exhausted. "Anything to help find answers about what happened to my wife."
At the precinct, Morrison didn't waste time.
"Mr. Blackwell, can you explain your relationship with Sienna Cole?"
"She's an old friend. College."
"An old friend who received your wife's heart in a transplant the same night she died?"
Damian swallowed. "That was... a miracle. A horrible coincidence turned into something meaningful."
"A coincidence." Morrison opened a folder. "Let's talk about Greyline Security."
I watched Damian's composure crack—just slightly, just around the edges. A twitch near his left eye. A subtle tightening of his interlaced fingers.
"I'm not familiar with that company."
"Really? Because Blackwell Holdings—your subsidiary—paid them $200,000 three weeks before your wife's accident. They installed the traffic camera that captured the footage of your wife allegedly running a red light."
"I have dozens of subsidiaries. I don't manage day-to-day expenditures."
Morrison slid another document across the table. "Dr. Marcus Webb. The surgeon who declared your wife brain-dead and performed the organ harvest. He received $100,000 from another one of your subsidiaries one month before the accident."
"I donate to medical research regularly—"
"And the truck driver? Mikhail Volkov? Hired by a logistics company owned by another shell entity that traces back to you?" Morrison leaned forward. "Mr. Blackwell, do you want to keep going, or would you like to speak with your attorney?"
Damian's jaw clenched. "I'd like my attorney present."
Morrison nodded slowly. "That's your right. But I want you to know something." He pulled out one final document and placed it face-down on the table.
"Your wife wasn't as oblivious as you thought."
He flipped the document over. Damian looked down—and his face turned the color of ash.
It was a notarized letter. My handwriting. Dated two weeks before my death.
My letter.
Two weeks before the accident, I'd noticed things. Small things—Damian's furtive phone calls, the cardiac screening he'd insisted on, the way he'd suddenly updated our life insurance policy. The way he looked at Sienna when he thought I wasn't watching.
I wasn't a detective like my father. But I was my father's daughter.
I wrote everything down. Every suspicion, every anomaly, every gut feeling. And I mailed it to the one person I trusted absolutely—my father.
The letter arrived three days after my funeral. Dad had been building his case ever since.
Damian stared at my words, his lips moving silently.
"If something happens to me," my letter read, "look at Damian. Look at Sienna. Look at my heart."
Morrison collected the letter and stood. "We'll be in touch, Mr. Blackwell. Don't leave the city."
"It wasn't a nightmare!" Sienna shoved him away with surprising force. "She was there! Inside my chest! She was screaming that she knows! She knows what we did!"
The heart monitor shrieked. Nurses burst in. Damian was forced back as the medical team surrounded Sienna, pushing sedatives into her IV line.
I stood at the foot of the bed and watched Sienna thrash against the restraints they applied. Her eyes locked onto the exact spot where I stood—and for one horrifying, exhilarating second, I knew she could see me.
Her scream split the air before the sedatives dragged her under.
The next morning, Detective Morrison showed up at Damian's penthouse with a warrant.
"Mr. Blackwell, we need you to come in for questioning."
Damian had rehearsed for this. He wore his grief like a costume—rumpled shirt, shadowed eyes, the perfect image of a man destroyed by loss.
"Of course," he said, his voice carefully exhausted. "Anything to help find answers about what happened to my wife."
At the precinct, Morrison didn't waste time.
"Mr. Blackwell, can you explain your relationship with Sienna Cole?"
"She's an old friend. College."
"An old friend who received your wife's heart in a transplant the same night she died?"
Damian swallowed. "That was... a miracle. A horrible coincidence turned into something meaningful."
"A coincidence." Morrison opened a folder. "Let's talk about Greyline Security."
I watched Damian's composure crack—just slightly, just around the edges. A twitch near his left eye. A subtle tightening of his interlaced fingers.
"I'm not familiar with that company."
"Really? Because Blackwell Holdings—your subsidiary—paid them $200,000 three weeks before your wife's accident. They installed the traffic camera that captured the footage of your wife allegedly running a red light."
"I have dozens of subsidiaries. I don't manage day-to-day expenditures."
Morrison slid another document across the table. "Dr. Marcus Webb. The surgeon who declared your wife brain-dead and performed the organ harvest. He received $100,000 from another one of your subsidiaries one month before the accident."
"I donate to medical research regularly—"
"And the truck driver? Mikhail Volkov? Hired by a logistics company owned by another shell entity that traces back to you?" Morrison leaned forward. "Mr. Blackwell, do you want to keep going, or would you like to speak with your attorney?"
Damian's jaw clenched. "I'd like my attorney present."
Morrison nodded slowly. "That's your right. But I want you to know something." He pulled out one final document and placed it face-down on the table.
"Your wife wasn't as oblivious as you thought."
He flipped the document over. Damian looked down—and his face turned the color of ash.
It was a notarized letter. My handwriting. Dated two weeks before my death.
My letter.
Two weeks before the accident, I'd noticed things. Small things—Damian's furtive phone calls, the cardiac screening he'd insisted on, the way he'd suddenly updated our life insurance policy. The way he looked at Sienna when he thought I wasn't watching.
I wasn't a detective like my father. But I was my father's daughter.
I wrote everything down. Every suspicion, every anomaly, every gut feeling. And I mailed it to the one person I trusted absolutely—my father.
The letter arrived three days after my funeral. Dad had been building his case ever since.
Damian stared at my words, his lips moving silently.
"If something happens to me," my letter read, "look at Damian. Look at Sienna. Look at my heart."
Morrison collected the letter and stood. "We'll be in touch, Mr. Blackwell. Don't leave the city."