Chapter 11
The sentencing hearing was scheduled for three weeks after the verdict.
In those three weeks, I tried to remember what normal life felt like. Nadia helped me find a small apartment — nothing fancy, just mine. No smoothies on the counter. No notes from a man who wanted me dead.
But Roman's words — *This isn't over* — lived in my chest like a second heartbeat.
I was right to worry.
One week before sentencing, Sandra called. Her voice was wrong.
"Derek Voss was found dead this morning," she said. "In his apartment. Apparent suicide."
"Apparent?"
"The investigation is ongoing. But Camille — he was our secondary witness. Without his testimony supporting the video evidence—"
"The videos speak for themselves."
"They do. But Roman's team filed a motion claiming the footage was AI-generated. Without Derek to authenticate the chain of custody..."
My hand tightened on the phone. "Roman did this. From jail. He reached out and had Derek killed."
"We can't prove that yet."
"What about Dr. Voss? Is he safe?"
Silence. Then: "Dr. Voss was transferred to a minimum security facility two days ago. Paperwork error — we're trying to get him moved back. But right now, he's in a facility where Roman has connections."
Roman was running his operation from behind bars. Eliminating witnesses. Pulling strings. The trial was won, but he was trying to destroy the evidence before sentencing.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I paced my apartment, checked the locks four times, stared at the ceiling.
My phone buzzed at 3 AM. Unknown number.
*He has people everywhere. Even your safe space isn't safe. Check under your doormat.*
I froze. Then, slowly, I walked to my front door.
Under the mat was a photograph. Me, sleeping in this apartment. Taken through the window. Last night.
On the back, in Roman's handwriting: *You sleep so peacefully now. I miss watching you.*
I called the marshals. They swept the building, found a compromised window sensor, and moved me that same night.
But the message was clear: conviction or not, Roman Hale would never stop.
The next morning, I made a decision. I went to see him.
The prison visiting room was cold, gray. Roman sat behind the glass, looking thinner but composed. When he saw me, that smile returned.
"Camille." He said my name like a caress. "You look tired. Are you eating enough iron?"
"Stop," I said flatly.
"I'm worried about you. You've lost weight."
"You had Derek killed."
His expression didn't change. "Derek was troubled. Guilt is a heavy burden."
"And the photo under my door?"
"What photo?" Perfectly innocent. Perfectly controlled.
I leaned forward. "Here's what's going to happen, Roman. At your sentencing, I'm going to read my victim impact statement. And I'm going to make sure you get the maximum. Every single year."
He studied me. Then, softly: "You know, I did love you. In my way."
"Your way involved stealing my kidney."
"I kept you alive for three years longer than I needed to. That should count for something."
The casual monstrousness of it — *longer than I needed to* — made bile rise in my throat.
I stood. "Goodbye, Roman."
As I walked away, he called out: "Camille? The apartment they moved you to — 4B on Elm Street? Nice neighborhood."
I didn't turn around. But my legs nearly buckled.
He knew. He always knew.
In those three weeks, I tried to remember what normal life felt like. Nadia helped me find a small apartment — nothing fancy, just mine. No smoothies on the counter. No notes from a man who wanted me dead.
But Roman's words — *This isn't over* — lived in my chest like a second heartbeat.
I was right to worry.
One week before sentencing, Sandra called. Her voice was wrong.
"Derek Voss was found dead this morning," she said. "In his apartment. Apparent suicide."
"Apparent?"
"The investigation is ongoing. But Camille — he was our secondary witness. Without his testimony supporting the video evidence—"
"The videos speak for themselves."
"They do. But Roman's team filed a motion claiming the footage was AI-generated. Without Derek to authenticate the chain of custody..."
My hand tightened on the phone. "Roman did this. From jail. He reached out and had Derek killed."
"We can't prove that yet."
"What about Dr. Voss? Is he safe?"
Silence. Then: "Dr. Voss was transferred to a minimum security facility two days ago. Paperwork error — we're trying to get him moved back. But right now, he's in a facility where Roman has connections."
Roman was running his operation from behind bars. Eliminating witnesses. Pulling strings. The trial was won, but he was trying to destroy the evidence before sentencing.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I paced my apartment, checked the locks four times, stared at the ceiling.
My phone buzzed at 3 AM. Unknown number.
*He has people everywhere. Even your safe space isn't safe. Check under your doormat.*
I froze. Then, slowly, I walked to my front door.
Under the mat was a photograph. Me, sleeping in this apartment. Taken through the window. Last night.
On the back, in Roman's handwriting: *You sleep so peacefully now. I miss watching you.*
I called the marshals. They swept the building, found a compromised window sensor, and moved me that same night.
But the message was clear: conviction or not, Roman Hale would never stop.
The next morning, I made a decision. I went to see him.
The prison visiting room was cold, gray. Roman sat behind the glass, looking thinner but composed. When he saw me, that smile returned.
"Camille." He said my name like a caress. "You look tired. Are you eating enough iron?"
"Stop," I said flatly.
"I'm worried about you. You've lost weight."
"You had Derek killed."
His expression didn't change. "Derek was troubled. Guilt is a heavy burden."
"And the photo under my door?"
"What photo?" Perfectly innocent. Perfectly controlled.
I leaned forward. "Here's what's going to happen, Roman. At your sentencing, I'm going to read my victim impact statement. And I'm going to make sure you get the maximum. Every single year."
He studied me. Then, softly: "You know, I did love you. In my way."
"Your way involved stealing my kidney."
"I kept you alive for three years longer than I needed to. That should count for something."
The casual monstrousness of it — *longer than I needed to* — made bile rise in my throat.
I stood. "Goodbye, Roman."
As I walked away, he called out: "Camille? The apartment they moved you to — 4B on Elm Street? Nice neighborhood."
I didn't turn around. But my legs nearly buckled.
He knew. He always knew.