Chapter 9
Margot Hale's case file was thin. Too thin.
She'd married Roman at twenty-three. By twenty-five, she'd developed "chronic fatigue syndrome" — his explanation to friends and family. By twenty-six, she was rarely seen in public. Then one day, Roman filed a missing persons report. Margot had "left without explanation," he told police. Depression, he suggested. Maybe suicide.
The case went cold within months.
Now, with new eyes, the DA's team went back through everything. Margot's medical records had been scrubbed — but Dr. Voss, desperate to reduce his sentence, remembered.
"She was the first donor," he confessed from his cell. "AB positive. Matched Elise for platelets and plasma. Roman used her for about two years."
"What happened to her?" Sandra asked.
Dr. Voss went quiet. Then: "Roman said she found out. He handled it himself. He didn't give me details, and I didn't ask."
"Is she dead?"
"I don't know. I truly don't. But I never saw her again."
This information reached me through Sandra, who sat across from me in the safe house living room with a grave expression.
"We're treating it as a potential homicide," she said. "This changes things significantly for the case. It establishes a pattern."
A pattern. I was part of a pattern. Selected, used, discarded.
"Camille, there's something else. Roman reached out to our office through his lawyers. He wants to make a deal."
"A deal?"
"Full confession in exchange for a reduced sentence. No death penalty consideration. Minimum security facility."
"He murdered his first wife."
"Allegedly. We have no body, no physical evidence. Without Margot, the strongest charges we have are aggravated assault, organ trafficking, and attempted murder — for you. With his confession, we guarantee conviction. Without it..." She hesitated. "His defense team is very good."
"No deal," I said immediately.
Sandra nodded slowly. "Then we go to trial. And you'll need to testify. Face him in court."
The thought made my stomach twist. Sitting in a room with Roman, his blue eyes fixed on me, that practiced sorrow on his face. The jury watching. Cameras outside.
"I'll do it," I said.
"There's one more thing." Sandra pulled out her phone. "This came into our tip line this morning."
She pressed play on a voicemail. A woman's voice, faint and shaky:
"My name is Margot Hale. I'm alive. I've been hiding for four years. I saw the news about Camille. I know what he did to her because he did it to me first. I have the scars to prove it. Please — tell her she's not alone."
I covered my mouth with both hands.
Sandra looked at me. "She's alive, Camille. She escaped. And she wants to testify."
For the first time in weeks, I cried — not from fear or grief, but from something dangerously close to hope.
She'd married Roman at twenty-three. By twenty-five, she'd developed "chronic fatigue syndrome" — his explanation to friends and family. By twenty-six, she was rarely seen in public. Then one day, Roman filed a missing persons report. Margot had "left without explanation," he told police. Depression, he suggested. Maybe suicide.
The case went cold within months.
Now, with new eyes, the DA's team went back through everything. Margot's medical records had been scrubbed — but Dr. Voss, desperate to reduce his sentence, remembered.
"She was the first donor," he confessed from his cell. "AB positive. Matched Elise for platelets and plasma. Roman used her for about two years."
"What happened to her?" Sandra asked.
Dr. Voss went quiet. Then: "Roman said she found out. He handled it himself. He didn't give me details, and I didn't ask."
"Is she dead?"
"I don't know. I truly don't. But I never saw her again."
This information reached me through Sandra, who sat across from me in the safe house living room with a grave expression.
"We're treating it as a potential homicide," she said. "This changes things significantly for the case. It establishes a pattern."
A pattern. I was part of a pattern. Selected, used, discarded.
"Camille, there's something else. Roman reached out to our office through his lawyers. He wants to make a deal."
"A deal?"
"Full confession in exchange for a reduced sentence. No death penalty consideration. Minimum security facility."
"He murdered his first wife."
"Allegedly. We have no body, no physical evidence. Without Margot, the strongest charges we have are aggravated assault, organ trafficking, and attempted murder — for you. With his confession, we guarantee conviction. Without it..." She hesitated. "His defense team is very good."
"No deal," I said immediately.
Sandra nodded slowly. "Then we go to trial. And you'll need to testify. Face him in court."
The thought made my stomach twist. Sitting in a room with Roman, his blue eyes fixed on me, that practiced sorrow on his face. The jury watching. Cameras outside.
"I'll do it," I said.
"There's one more thing." Sandra pulled out her phone. "This came into our tip line this morning."
She pressed play on a voicemail. A woman's voice, faint and shaky:
"My name is Margot Hale. I'm alive. I've been hiding for four years. I saw the news about Camille. I know what he did to her because he did it to me first. I have the scars to prove it. Please — tell her she's not alone."
I covered my mouth with both hands.
Sandra looked at me. "She's alive, Camille. She escaped. And she wants to testify."
For the first time in weeks, I cried — not from fear or grief, but from something dangerously close to hope.