But not before I found that sliver. Not before they revealed themselves.
I sit back against the headboard, cradling the laptop like it’s a bomb wired to my heartbeat. They want me to doubt myself. They want me to lose track of what’s real. That’s the weapon. Not force. Not bullets.Doubt.
I’m not playing their game anymore.
I click into a secure cloud account I set up a few days ago, back when adrenaline and fear first shoved me out the door and into this hotel. I upload the video—the damning clip of Jack and Aubrey in my apartment—to the drive.
Insurance.
Because if they come for me, if they try to bury me underanother layer of lies, I’ll bury them first.
A cold, steady resolve coils in my chest. They think they can erase me. They have no idea who they're dealing with. Not anymore.
Thirty-Nine
Ellie
The security code hasn’t changed.
That’s the first thing I notice when the keypad beeps under my fingertips and the heavy front door of my father’s penthouse clicks open. I don't hesitate—just slip inside, closing the door behind me as quietly as I can.
The penthouse is exactly as I remember it: cold, cavernous, painfully curated. Every surface gleams, from the black marble floors to the chrome and glass furniture. It smells faintly of cedar and something sharper—money, maybe, if money had a scent.
I move fast. I know my father’s routine; I know he won't be back until after seven—if he comes home at all.
The first floor yields nothing—just the same sterile living room, the massive empty kitchen, the closed-off study. I search anyway, brushing my fingers over the bookshelves, the locked liquor cabinets. Everything staged, everything hollow.
It’s only when I reach the back hallway, the one leading to the old servants’ quarters, that my pulse spikes. Growing up, my father always kept the door to the hallway locked, claiming the servants’ quarters was just for storage. I'd never questioned it.
Now, the door is cracked open. I slip inside.
The air smells stale, untouched. Dust motes spiral in the shafts of afternoon light slipping through narrow, high windows. The cramped hallway leads to a small, bare room—and inside, chaos.
Boxes stacked floor to ceiling. Folders spilling their contents across the floor. A battered metal filing cabinet with drawers half-open. I step closer.
The first box I check is filled with thick manila folders stamped with the seal of Greystone Psychiatric—the facility where my father said my mother died.
I pull out a file and flip it open.
Subject: Valeria Thomas. Diagnosis: Acute Delusional Disorder. Paranoia. Emotional Instability. Violent tendencies.
Page after page of medical jargon. Incident reports. Psychiatric evaluations. Redacted sections so heavy with black ink the pages look burned.
I dig deeper. Another box, filled with surveillance photos—of me.
Me at five years old, holding a popsicle in the park. Me at seven, walking into my elementary school. Me at ten, sitting alone at the edge of a soccer field.
All dated. All cataloged. As if I were a specimen under observation. My stomach twists.
I rifle through the folders, heart pounding harder with every discovery. Some of the files detail treatments approved by my father—sedatives prescribed without my mother’s consent. There are notes about her “declining cooperation.” Recommendations for “permanent solutions.”
Permanent solutions.
I press my knuckles against my mouth, willing down the nausea rising in my throat.
My father didn’t just commit my mother.
He orchestrated her erasure.
