Chapter 113ADRIANI had spent five years believing the crash on the airport road was exactly what it appeared to be. A woman leaving a marriage, driving too fast, too distracted, too upset, losing control on a wet curve in the day. Grief had built itself around that explanation the way scar tissue builds around a wound, and I had never once, in five years, questioned whether the wound itself had a different shape than I believed.But if someone with resources and precision had tried again tonight, on an ordinary residential street, with a stolen car and false plates and a planned escape route, then the possibility opened in front of me like something I could not close back up.What if the first accident had not been an accident at all.What if someone had tried to kill Elena Hart five years ago, and had believed they succeeded, and had only now discovered, through some fan-event photograph or some careless piece of publicity around the orchestra's tour, tha
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