Chapter 9
On the sixth day after the investigation reopened, they arrested Damian.
It happened at the hospital. He'd been sitting in the ICU waiting area, staring at the wall, when Morrison and three uniformed officers approached.
"Damian Blackwell, you're under arrest for the murder of Arabella Blackwell, conspiracy to commit murder, insurance fraud, and—"
Damian didn't resist. He didn't speak. He simply stood up and extended his wrists.
The handcuffs clicked shut. Several hospital staff stopped to stare. Whispers rippled through the corridor like wildfire.
As the officers led him out, Damian looked back over his shoulder—toward the ICU, where Sienna lay dying.
"Can I see her?" he asked. "Just one last time?"
"No," Morrison said.
They walked him out through the main entrance. Three news vans were already parked outside—someone had tipped off the press. Cameras flashed. Reporters shouted questions. Damian ducked his head as officers guided him into the back of a patrol car.
I followed him—still bound to this wretched man even in his disgrace.
At the precinct, Damian sat in the interrogation room for six hours before his attorney arrived. During those six hours, he didn't move. He didn't speak. He just stared at his hands as though seeing them for the first time.
I stood in the corner and watched him unravel.
"Arabella," he whispered at one point—so quietly that the recording barely picked it up. "I'm sorry."
Sorry. He was sorry.
Sorry wasn't enough to fill the cavity in my chest. Sorry wasn't enough to reverse the damage to my mother's mind. Sorry wasn't enough to repay my father for the months he'd spent destroying his own health to hunt down my killer.
Sorry was nothing.
But something was happening back at the hospital.
Sienna's condition had deteriorated beyond medical intervention. Her body was in full rejection—my heart was attacking her from within with a ferocity that baffled every cardiologist on the ward.
"We need to remove the heart," the lead surgeon announced to his team. "If we don't act now, multi-organ failure will begin within hours."
"And replace it with what? There's no available donor—"
"LVAD. Mechanical pump. It's her only chance."
They rushed Sienna into surgery. The operation to remove my heart took three hours. When it was over, my heart sat in a surgical basin, still and silent for the first time since it had been stolen from my body.
And something extraordinary happened.
The moment my heart left Sienna's chest, I felt the tether that bound me to Damian weaken. For the first time in weeks, I could move freely. I could drift. I could choose where to go.
I went to my father.
He was sitting at the kitchen table again, but this time, he wasn't working. He was just sitting there, holding my childhood photograph, tears streaming silently down his weathered face.
Mom was in the hospital now—admitted for severe depression and malnutrition. The house was empty except for him and the ghosts of better times.
"I got him, Elly," Dad whispered to my photograph. "I got him."
I wrapped my arms around him—knowing he couldn't feel it, knowing it changed nothing—and I held on anyway.
It happened at the hospital. He'd been sitting in the ICU waiting area, staring at the wall, when Morrison and three uniformed officers approached.
"Damian Blackwell, you're under arrest for the murder of Arabella Blackwell, conspiracy to commit murder, insurance fraud, and—"
Damian didn't resist. He didn't speak. He simply stood up and extended his wrists.
The handcuffs clicked shut. Several hospital staff stopped to stare. Whispers rippled through the corridor like wildfire.
As the officers led him out, Damian looked back over his shoulder—toward the ICU, where Sienna lay dying.
"Can I see her?" he asked. "Just one last time?"
"No," Morrison said.
They walked him out through the main entrance. Three news vans were already parked outside—someone had tipped off the press. Cameras flashed. Reporters shouted questions. Damian ducked his head as officers guided him into the back of a patrol car.
I followed him—still bound to this wretched man even in his disgrace.
At the precinct, Damian sat in the interrogation room for six hours before his attorney arrived. During those six hours, he didn't move. He didn't speak. He just stared at his hands as though seeing them for the first time.
I stood in the corner and watched him unravel.
"Arabella," he whispered at one point—so quietly that the recording barely picked it up. "I'm sorry."
Sorry. He was sorry.
Sorry wasn't enough to fill the cavity in my chest. Sorry wasn't enough to reverse the damage to my mother's mind. Sorry wasn't enough to repay my father for the months he'd spent destroying his own health to hunt down my killer.
Sorry was nothing.
But something was happening back at the hospital.
Sienna's condition had deteriorated beyond medical intervention. Her body was in full rejection—my heart was attacking her from within with a ferocity that baffled every cardiologist on the ward.
"We need to remove the heart," the lead surgeon announced to his team. "If we don't act now, multi-organ failure will begin within hours."
"And replace it with what? There's no available donor—"
"LVAD. Mechanical pump. It's her only chance."
They rushed Sienna into surgery. The operation to remove my heart took three hours. When it was over, my heart sat in a surgical basin, still and silent for the first time since it had been stolen from my body.
And something extraordinary happened.
The moment my heart left Sienna's chest, I felt the tether that bound me to Damian weaken. For the first time in weeks, I could move freely. I could drift. I could choose where to go.
I went to my father.
He was sitting at the kitchen table again, but this time, he wasn't working. He was just sitting there, holding my childhood photograph, tears streaming silently down his weathered face.
Mom was in the hospital now—admitted for severe depression and malnutrition. The house was empty except for him and the ghosts of better times.
"I got him, Elly," Dad whispered to my photograph. "I got him."
I wrapped my arms around him—knowing he couldn't feel it, knowing it changed nothing—and I held on anyway.