Chapter 10
I didn't sleep that night.
Helen's words played on loop in my mind. "Mei Lin didn't die of illness."
My mother died when I was sixteen. The doctors said it was a rare autoimmune condition — sudden onset, rapid deterioration. She was gone in three weeks.
I remembered her final days. How quickly she faded. How Helen stood at the bedside with perfect tears, performing grief like a Broadway actress.
Had it been performance the whole time?
At 2 AM, I called Leo.
"Pull everything on my mother's death. Hospital records, autopsy reports, pharmacy records. Everything."
"Ashley, it's the middle of—"
"Now, Leo."
By 5 AM, he had a preliminary file on my desk.
I read through it with shaking hands.
The autopsy had been brief. Signed off by a Dr. Werner — a name I didn't recognize. No toxicology panel. Cause of death listed simply as "organ failure due to autoimmune cascade."
But there, buried in the pharmacy records, was an anomaly.
A prescription filled two weeks before my mother's death. A medication she had never taken before, prescribed by a doctor not listed as part of her medical team.
The prescribing doctor? Dr. Werner. The same one who signed the autopsy.
And the medication — I researched it frantically — was known to trigger severe autoimmune responses in patients with specific genetic markers.
Markers my mother had.
My vision blurred. Not from tears — from rage.
Helen hadn't just stolen my inheritance. She had stolen my mother.
At 7 AM, Daniel arrived at my apartment. I hadn't told him to come. He just knew.
He took one look at my face and the scattered papers, and sat beside me on the floor.
"Tell me," he said.
I showed him everything. The prescription. Dr. Werner. The missing toxicology panel.
His expression darkened with each page.
"Dr. Werner," he said slowly. "I know that name. He was on my father's payroll. For years."
Our eyes met. The connection clicked into place.
Richard Blackwell and Helen. Together. Not just stealing an inheritance — committing murder to get it.
"We go to the police," I said. "Today."
"With what?" Daniel's voice was gentle but firm. "Circumstantial evidence and a fifteen-year-old prescription record? We need Dr. Werner's testimony. Or documentation linking the medication purchase to Helen or my father."
"Then we find it."
"I know where to look." Daniel pulled out his phone. "My father keeps records of everything. Insurance, he calls it. There's a safe in his estate office. I've seen it. If proof exists, it's there."
"You'd break into your own father's home?"
"For this?" He looked at me with an intensity that stole my breath. "Without hesitation."
By noon, we had a plan. Daniel would access the estate during his father's weekly board meeting — the one appointment Richard never missed. I would handle the press conference, redirecting the narrative away from Victoria's accusations and toward the real criminals.
My press conference was at 3 PM.
I stood at the podium in a black suit, cameras flashing, every major outlet present.
"I won't dignify false accusations with extended responses," I began. "Instead, I'll share facts."
I detailed Helen's fraud — the stolen will, the hidden inheritance, the sold assets. I presented documentation. Bank records. Forged signatures.
Then I revealed Sophia's charity embezzlement. Photos of receipts. Hotel bills charged to the foundation. Designer purchases on the charity credit card.
The reporters erupted.
"Is Sophia Carter going to face charges?"
"What about Victoria Lane's involvement?"
I held up a hand. "That's all for today. Further information will be released as the investigation progresses."
I stepped away from the podium. My phone buzzed immediately.
Daniel: "I'm in. Found the safe. You're not going to believe what's inside."
My heart hammered.
Then another message: "Someone else is here. I think I've been followed."
Then nothing.
No response to my calls. No reply to my texts.
Daniel had gone silent.
Helen's words played on loop in my mind. "Mei Lin didn't die of illness."
My mother died when I was sixteen. The doctors said it was a rare autoimmune condition — sudden onset, rapid deterioration. She was gone in three weeks.
I remembered her final days. How quickly she faded. How Helen stood at the bedside with perfect tears, performing grief like a Broadway actress.
Had it been performance the whole time?
At 2 AM, I called Leo.
"Pull everything on my mother's death. Hospital records, autopsy reports, pharmacy records. Everything."
"Ashley, it's the middle of—"
"Now, Leo."
By 5 AM, he had a preliminary file on my desk.
I read through it with shaking hands.
The autopsy had been brief. Signed off by a Dr. Werner — a name I didn't recognize. No toxicology panel. Cause of death listed simply as "organ failure due to autoimmune cascade."
But there, buried in the pharmacy records, was an anomaly.
A prescription filled two weeks before my mother's death. A medication she had never taken before, prescribed by a doctor not listed as part of her medical team.
The prescribing doctor? Dr. Werner. The same one who signed the autopsy.
And the medication — I researched it frantically — was known to trigger severe autoimmune responses in patients with specific genetic markers.
Markers my mother had.
My vision blurred. Not from tears — from rage.
Helen hadn't just stolen my inheritance. She had stolen my mother.
At 7 AM, Daniel arrived at my apartment. I hadn't told him to come. He just knew.
He took one look at my face and the scattered papers, and sat beside me on the floor.
"Tell me," he said.
I showed him everything. The prescription. Dr. Werner. The missing toxicology panel.
His expression darkened with each page.
"Dr. Werner," he said slowly. "I know that name. He was on my father's payroll. For years."
Our eyes met. The connection clicked into place.
Richard Blackwell and Helen. Together. Not just stealing an inheritance — committing murder to get it.
"We go to the police," I said. "Today."
"With what?" Daniel's voice was gentle but firm. "Circumstantial evidence and a fifteen-year-old prescription record? We need Dr. Werner's testimony. Or documentation linking the medication purchase to Helen or my father."
"Then we find it."
"I know where to look." Daniel pulled out his phone. "My father keeps records of everything. Insurance, he calls it. There's a safe in his estate office. I've seen it. If proof exists, it's there."
"You'd break into your own father's home?"
"For this?" He looked at me with an intensity that stole my breath. "Without hesitation."
By noon, we had a plan. Daniel would access the estate during his father's weekly board meeting — the one appointment Richard never missed. I would handle the press conference, redirecting the narrative away from Victoria's accusations and toward the real criminals.
My press conference was at 3 PM.
I stood at the podium in a black suit, cameras flashing, every major outlet present.
"I won't dignify false accusations with extended responses," I began. "Instead, I'll share facts."
I detailed Helen's fraud — the stolen will, the hidden inheritance, the sold assets. I presented documentation. Bank records. Forged signatures.
Then I revealed Sophia's charity embezzlement. Photos of receipts. Hotel bills charged to the foundation. Designer purchases on the charity credit card.
The reporters erupted.
"Is Sophia Carter going to face charges?"
"What about Victoria Lane's involvement?"
I held up a hand. "That's all for today. Further information will be released as the investigation progresses."
I stepped away from the podium. My phone buzzed immediately.
Daniel: "I'm in. Found the safe. You're not going to believe what's inside."
My heart hammered.
Then another message: "Someone else is here. I think I've been followed."
Then nothing.
No response to my calls. No reply to my texts.
Daniel had gone silent.