AlexanderThe whiskey burned going down, but it did nothing to quiet the voices in my head. I sat in my study at 3 AM, staring at the file spread across my desk. Emily's file. Every detail of her life mapped out like a battle plan.But battles weren't supposed to feel like this.I picked up the photo Vincent had taken six months ago - Emily leaving the hospital with Violet in her arms, both of them crying. Perfect. Vulnerable. Exactly what the arrangement required."Subject exhibits optimal characteristics for Phase Twelve," I'd written in the margins. "Proceed with acquisition."Acquisition. Like she was a piece of property instead of a woman who made my chest tight when she smiled.The intercom buzzed on my desk. "Mr. Richie? There's a call for you. Line two."I checked the clock. Who the hell called at three in the morning?"Alexander." The voice on the other end was smooth, cultured, with just a hint of an accent I'd never been able to place. My handler. The man who'd given me eve
EmilyViolet's breathing sounded like paper tearing. Each breath came shorter than the last, her small chest fighting for air that wouldn't come. The fever had spiked to 105 degrees an hour ago, and her lips were turning blue around the edges.I pressed my ear to her chest. Her heartbeat fluttered like a dying bird."Mama," she whispered, her voice so weak I had to lean close to hear. "I'm cold."But her skin burned like fire under my touch. The medicine Alexander had given me earlier wasn't working. If anything, she was getting worse.I looked at the bottle in my hands. The label was right - same prescription, same dosage Violet had been taking for months. But something was wrong. The liquid inside looked thinner than usual, almost watery.A sound echoed from downstairs. Catherine's heels clicking across the marble floor, getting closer."I don't care what that girl thinks," Catherine's voice carried up the stairs. "She's nothing but trouble. First Jason, now this drama with the poli
Detective HensleyThe coffee had gone cold hours ago, but I kept sipping it anyway. My desk looked like a hurricane had hit it, files scattered everywhere, photos pinned to my bulletin board with red string connecting them like some conspiracy theorist's fever dream.But this wasn't paranoia. This was pattern recognition."Jesus, Laura." Detective Mills dropped into the chair across from my desk, his brown eyes concerned. "When's the last time you went home?"I didn't look up from the marriage certificate I was studying. "Alexander Richie, married to Elizabeth Walsh, July 2019. Elizabeth Walsh, formerly Elizabeth Martinez. Single mother worked three jobs to support her kid.""Laura.""Before that, Sarah Mitchell. Married Alexander in 2018. Single mother, son with asthma. Died in a car accident six months later.""Laura, look at me."I finally raised my head. Mills had that expression he got when he thought I was losing it. The same look everyone gave me five years ago when I couldn't
EmilyThe house felt like a tomb. Three days had passed since Jason's funeral, and the silence pressed against my chest like a weight. Alexander hadn't spoken to me since the police released me. He'd look through me as if I were a ghost, which maybe I was becoming.Violet's cough echoed from upstairs, wet and desperate. I clutched the empty medicine bottle in my hands, my knuckles white. Catherine had locked the medical supplies in Alexander's study after the funeral, claiming I couldn't be trusted."Please," I begged her this morning. "She's burning up.""Should have thought about that before you pushed my grandson off a balcony," she'd hissed, her eyes cold as winter.But Violet's fever was climbing. 104 degrees this morning. Her skin felt like paper, hot and fragile. I had maybe hours before I'd lose her too.The study door loomed before me now, heavy oak with brass handles. Alexander was at his office downtown, I'd watched his car disappear through the gates an hour ago. Catherin
Emily POVThe mansion was a tomb, its silence heavier than any scream. I stepped through the front door, clutching Violet’s hand, my heart pounding like a trapped bird.Alexander had paid my bail, but his eyes were cold when he picked me up from the station, no trace of the man who’d once called me beautiful. The police had let me go, for now, but Detective Hensley’s last words echoed in my head: “We’re watching you, Ms. Carter.” My past, that video of me dancing, Jason’s note, they were building a cage around me, and I didn’t know how to escape.Inside, the air felt thick, like the house itself was holding its breath. Sophia and Michael stood at the top of the grand staircase, their faces pale, their eyes avoiding mine. “Murderer,” Sophia whispered, just loud enough for me to hear. Michael echoed her, his voice a hissed, “Killer.” The words stabbed me, and I pulled Violet closer, her small body warm against my side. She didn’t understand, but her wide eyes told me she felt the hate.
Detective Laura Hensley leaned back in her chair, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead in the stark interrogation room. Her pen tapped rhythmically against her notebook, a habit that surfaced when her gut told her something was off.Across the table, Emily Carter sat hunched, her hands trembling, her cheap mascara smudged from crying. Laura’s eyes narrowed, studying the young woman, barely twenty-five, yet her face carried the weight of someone twice her age. Emily’s past as a stripper, her marriage to a billionaire, and now the death of a teenage boy all screamed trouble. Laura didn’t trust her. Not one bit.“Start from the beginning, Ms. Carter,” Laura said, her voice sharp but controlled. “What happened on that balcony?”Emily’s lips quivered, her eyes darting to the one-way mirror behind Laura. “I told you,” she whispered, her voice raw. “Jason was yelling at me, calling me names, gold-digger, prostitute, worse. I told him to stop. He stepped back, and… he fell.” Her voice brok