Chapter 8
Damian's attorney got him out of the precinct within two hours, but the damage was done. The investigation was now officially a homicide case.
That night, Damian didn't go to the hospital. Instead, he drove to Dr. Webb's apartment—only to find it empty. Cleared out. The surgeon had fled the country the moment he caught wind of the investigation.
Damian stood in the vacant apartment, surrounded by bare walls and dust outlines where furniture used to be. His hands were shaking.
"No," he muttered. "No, no, no."
He called Sienna. She didn't pick up.
He called again. And again. On the fifth try, she finally answered.
"Damian, don't come to the hospital." Her voice was strangely flat. "The police were here. They asked me about us. About the transplant."
"What did you tell them?"
"Nothing. I told them nothing." A pause. "But they know, Damian. They know everything."
"They don't know everything. They have circumstantial evidence. My lawyer says—"
"Your wife wrote a letter." Sienna's voice cracked. "She knew. Before she died, she already knew. That stupid, meddling—"
"Don't." Damian's voice was hollow. "Don't talk about her like that."
The line went silent for a moment. Then Sienna laughed—a brittle, ugly sound.
"Oh, now you care about her? Now that she's reaching out from the grave to destroy us, you suddenly develop a conscience?"
"Sienna—"
"Her heart is killing me, Damian! Do you understand that? Every day, the rejection gets worse! The doctors can't explain it! It's like she's inside me, tearing me apart from within!"
I was there, in Sienna's hospital room, watching her scream into her phone. The monitors beeped frantically. And I pressed closer—closer to the chest that housed my stolen heart.
You took everything from me, I whispered. My life. My family. My future. But my heart knows. My heart remembers.
Sienna clutched her chest and gasped. The phone clattered to the floor.
"Nurse!" she screamed. "NURSE!"
The next forty-eight hours were chaos.
Sienna was rushed back to the ICU. The rejection had escalated to Grade 3—severe enough that doctors began discussing whether to remove the heart entirely and place her on a mechanical pump until another donor could be found.
But organ transplant lists didn't work on the timeline Sienna needed. Without my heart, she had days. Maybe hours.
Damian haunted the hospital corridors like a ghost himself. Unshaven, unwashed, hollow-eyed. He looked nothing like the polished billionaire who'd eulogized me so eloquently at my funeral.
Meanwhile, my father's evidence continued to pile up. Detective Morrison had tracked down Mikhail Volkov—the truck driver—hiding in a motel two states away. Faced with the evidence against him, Volkov crumbled in under an hour.
He confessed everything. The payment. The instructions. The specific intersection, the specific time. He even had text messages from a burner phone that forensics was working to trace back to Damian.
Morrison called my father with the update.
"We're building an airtight case, Richard. We'll have enough for an arrest warrant within the week."
Dad was silent for a long moment. Then, in a voice that was barely audible: "Will it bring her back?"
"No," Morrison said honestly. "But it'll bring justice."
Justice. That word echoed in my spectral consciousness. Was this justice? Watching my murderer fall apart while my mother wasted away and my father destroyed himself seeking vengeance?
Was any of this justice?
That night, Damian didn't go to the hospital. Instead, he drove to Dr. Webb's apartment—only to find it empty. Cleared out. The surgeon had fled the country the moment he caught wind of the investigation.
Damian stood in the vacant apartment, surrounded by bare walls and dust outlines where furniture used to be. His hands were shaking.
"No," he muttered. "No, no, no."
He called Sienna. She didn't pick up.
He called again. And again. On the fifth try, she finally answered.
"Damian, don't come to the hospital." Her voice was strangely flat. "The police were here. They asked me about us. About the transplant."
"What did you tell them?"
"Nothing. I told them nothing." A pause. "But they know, Damian. They know everything."
"They don't know everything. They have circumstantial evidence. My lawyer says—"
"Your wife wrote a letter." Sienna's voice cracked. "She knew. Before she died, she already knew. That stupid, meddling—"
"Don't." Damian's voice was hollow. "Don't talk about her like that."
The line went silent for a moment. Then Sienna laughed—a brittle, ugly sound.
"Oh, now you care about her? Now that she's reaching out from the grave to destroy us, you suddenly develop a conscience?"
"Sienna—"
"Her heart is killing me, Damian! Do you understand that? Every day, the rejection gets worse! The doctors can't explain it! It's like she's inside me, tearing me apart from within!"
I was there, in Sienna's hospital room, watching her scream into her phone. The monitors beeped frantically. And I pressed closer—closer to the chest that housed my stolen heart.
You took everything from me, I whispered. My life. My family. My future. But my heart knows. My heart remembers.
Sienna clutched her chest and gasped. The phone clattered to the floor.
"Nurse!" she screamed. "NURSE!"
The next forty-eight hours were chaos.
Sienna was rushed back to the ICU. The rejection had escalated to Grade 3—severe enough that doctors began discussing whether to remove the heart entirely and place her on a mechanical pump until another donor could be found.
But organ transplant lists didn't work on the timeline Sienna needed. Without my heart, she had days. Maybe hours.
Damian haunted the hospital corridors like a ghost himself. Unshaven, unwashed, hollow-eyed. He looked nothing like the polished billionaire who'd eulogized me so eloquently at my funeral.
Meanwhile, my father's evidence continued to pile up. Detective Morrison had tracked down Mikhail Volkov—the truck driver—hiding in a motel two states away. Faced with the evidence against him, Volkov crumbled in under an hour.
He confessed everything. The payment. The instructions. The specific intersection, the specific time. He even had text messages from a burner phone that forensics was working to trace back to Damian.
Morrison called my father with the update.
"We're building an airtight case, Richard. We'll have enough for an arrest warrant within the week."
Dad was silent for a long moment. Then, in a voice that was barely audible: "Will it bring her back?"
"No," Morrison said honestly. "But it'll bring justice."
Justice. That word echoed in my spectral consciousness. Was this justice? Watching my murderer fall apart while my mother wasted away and my father destroyed himself seeking vengeance?
Was any of this justice?