The precinct interrogation room is small and smells like stale coffee and fear.
I watch through the one-way mirror as Detective Miller flips through the file on the table.
Across from him sits Leah.
Or rather, a version of her. The polish is gone. Her hair is limp, her makeup gone, and that practiced, icy composure has cracked, revealing the frantic, cornered animal underneath.
"This is ridiculous," she snaps, though her voice wavers. "My father built this city. You can't hold me."
Miller doesn't look up.
"Your father is dead, Ms. Kingsley. And according to the documents provided to us this morning... his legacy is a little more complicated than we thought."
I lean against the back wall, watching the color drain from her face. David stands beside me, arms crossed.
"We gave them everything?" I ask, my voice low.
"Everything," David confirms. "The recordings we found on our surveillance system, the direct wire transfers to the two men who took Della and some hints about her father’s network. It's irrefutable, Dorian. She's not getting out on bail. She’s not getting out, period."
I expected to feel triumph in seeing her locked up. I expected a surge of that dark, satisfying rage. Instead, I just feel... done. She looks small and pathetic like a ghost I’ve finally exorcised.
"Good," I say, turning away from the glass. "She’s a problem for the state now. Not for me."
We walk out into the corridor, the fluorescent lights humming.
"You handled that well," David says, matching my stride.
"Don't psychoanalyze me, Dave."
"I'm not. I'm just saying... the old you would have wanted to be in that room. Wanted to twist the knife."
I stop at the exit, looking out at the gray Chicago streets.
"The old me would have killed her," I admit. "And lost Della in the process."
I touch the phone in my pocket, thinking of the message I sent this morning.Walk your path..."I'm learning, David. Slowly."
* * *
I’m at David and Flor’s place. It’s warm and cozy, and smells of garlic and spices—a stark contrast to my empty penthouse.
Flor shoves a plate of pasta into my hands before I can even sit down.
"Eat," she commands. "You look like a vampire on a diet."
I sit at the island, picking at the food.
"I'm fine, Flor."
"You're not fine," David says, opening a beer. "You're checking your phone every two minutes."
I glare at him.
"I'm, I’m just… She's in the desert. Signal is spotty."
"She's healing, Dorian," Flor says gently, leaning across the counter. "You need to trust her. And you need to trustyourself."
"I trust her," I snap, the frustration leaking out. "It's the waiting. The lack of control. I feel... useless."
