"I'm starting to."
Dr. Richardson removes his gloves and disposes of them with the careful precision of someone who's spent a lifetime managing biohazards. "I'll encrypt the results, send them only to Blake's secure line. No paper trail, no digital footprint beyond what's necessary for legal filing."
"Thank you," Blake says.
"Don't thank me yet." Dr. Chen's expression darkens. "You should know, someone else came asking about Kingsley genealogy about six months ago. They wanted access to the genetic database, claimed it was for a family history project."
My stomach drops. "Who?"
“He didn't give a name, but based on past experience, I recognized the affiliation—Hollow Club. I refused, obviously. But if the HC is looking into bloodlines, then they might already suspect what you're about to prove."
“We think they might be outside right now. I think they are more than aware of who I am and what I could possibly prove.”
Dr. Chen’s forehead wrinkles, and then Blake's hand finds mine again and squeezes. I don’t think he wanted me to mention to Dr. Richardson that we were followed.
"Did the HC push back when you refused access?” Blake asks the doctor.
"They threatened to shut me down and audit my licenses. You know, the usual intimidation tactics. I told them to try." Dr. Richardson smiles grimly. "The advantage of having nothing left to lose is that threats lose their effectiveness."
I’m silent for a moment, processing the timeline.
Six months ago.
It was six months ago that my father started receiving threats. It was also around the same time I started noticing surveillance that felt different from the usual Secret Service presence. They've been watching me for longer than I imagined.
“There's something else," Dr. Richardson says. He pulls out a folder, slides it across his desk. "Blake asked me to look into your mother's death. The official autopsy report ruled it a mechanical failure, a brake line malfunction with no evidence of tampering."
"But?" I hear the question in my voice, the hope and dread twisted together.
"But I know the medical examiner who signed off on it. Dr. Patricia Lennox. She's competent, thorough, and has never been one to take shortcuts." He opens the folder, shows me pages of technical medical jargon I can barely parse. "The autopsy was completed in six hours. That's unusually fast for a high-profile case. And there are inconsistencies in the toxicology report, substances present that don't match the official narrative."
My hands are shaking. I force them still. "What kind of substances?"
"Traces of a sedative which was minimal and barely detectable. The kind of drug that could be explained away as prescription medication for a sleep disorder. Except your mother wasn't prescribed anything that would show up in this concentration." Dr. Richardson looks at me with something like sympathy. "I can't prove it was foul play but I can say with medical certainty that the investigation was incomplete. Deliberately so."
"Who signed off on closing the case?" Blake asks.
"That's the interesting part. The order came from the district attorney's office. Specifically, from a prosecutor named Marcus Thorne."
I’ve been doing my research in the last twenty-four hours and I know that surname. Thorne is another one of Wintervale's founding families.
"Jesus," I breathe.
"I'm sorry," Dr. Richardson says quietly. "I know this isn't what you wanted to hear."
"No." I close the folder with careful precision. "It's exactly what I needed to hear. Confirmation that my mother didn't just die. She was killed, and people I don't even know helped cover it up."
Blake's arm comes around my shoulders, steady and solid. "We'll prove it and hold people accountable. Once you’ve claimed your inheritance and have the power and resources, we'll reopen the investigation. We'll get justice for your mom.”
"Justice." The word tastes bitter. "Is that even possible in Wintervale?"
"We'll make it possible. One way or another.”
Dr. Richardson stands, signaling the appointment's over. "Be careful. Both of you. What you’re attempting to do comes with more than just money. It comes with enemies who've spent decades protecting what they think is theirs. They won't give it up easily."
"I'm not asking them to give it up." I stand, holding my clutch from last night, and meet his eyes directly. "I'm taking it. Whether they like it or not."
He almost smiles. "Your mother would be proud."
