I held his gaze. “Are you arresting me?”
More silence.
The tall one sighed, long and theatrical. “Look, I get it. It’s hard to lose someone, especially someone close. And especially if you thought they were doing better. But addicts relapse. That’s the nature of the beast.”
“I’m not saying he was a saint,” I said. “I’m saying this wasn’t a relapse.”
The short one chuckled under his breath. “You sure you’re not looking for someone to blame? People grieving do that. They rewrite the story so it hurts less.”
I stood. “You’re not listening.”
“No,” said the tall one. “You’re not accepting. It’s done. He’s gone. The report’s closed. We’re not reopening anything because a grieving sister watched a few too many crime documentaries.”
I stared at them. For a moment, I wanted to shout and scream, throw the chair across the room to watch them flinch. They weren’t incompetent. They were pretending, which was worse. At least incompetence could be fixed. Corruption ran deeper.
Instead, I reached down, picked up the report, and folded it neatly.
“I’ll take that.” The short one stood and held his hand out for my report.
I opened my mouth to argue, but my mind caught up first. If they arrested me for having it, I would be no help to anyone. I huffed out a sigh but handed it over.
They watched me like they expected me to cry. Grieving relatives didn’t dig. Grieving relatives didn’t fight. They went home. They cried. They fell apart quietly.
But I’d never done what I was supposed to.
“I appreciate your time,” I said, turning for the door, “but I’m not done yet.”
The short one muttered something under his breath, but I didn’t care enough to listen.
Because they were wrong.
I sat in the car drumming my fingers as irritation raced through me. Why was nobody listening? The whole thing screamed coverup.
Surely, my parents would listen to me now that I had the proof in the autopsy reports. I clicked on the indicator andpulled out into traffic, heading towards the house I said I’d never return to.
The house hadn’t changed—stone pillars, wrought-iron gates, and guards with earpieces pretending not to see me roll my eyes as they buzzed me through. Even the landscaping looked pruned within an inch of its life, perfectly controlled, like everything else inside.
I parked crooked on the driveway. Let them complain—I wasn’t planning on staying long.
The front doors opened before I even reached them. A housekeeper I didn’t recognize blinked at me, clearly unsure if she should welcome me or warn me off. I pushed past her before she could decide.
Voices floated from the sitting room, along with high-pitched laughter, the clink of crystal glasses, and the low hum of money being flaunted. My parents were entertaining. Of course, they were. It had only been a day since they’d buried their son, for fuck’s sake.
I didn’t bother being subtle. I walked straight through the marble foyer and into the lion’s den. Six people turned to look at me—men in suits, women with lips too tight to smile naturally, and in the middle of them, my parents.
My mother froze mid-pour, Champagne sloshing onto her guest’s manicured hand. My father raised one brow but didn’t stand.
“Lucy,” he said, like the name itself was an inconvenience. “I assumed you’d gone back to whatever dusty hole you live in.”
“I need to speak to you,” I said, holding up the printout. “Now.”
His nostrils flared, but he turned to the room and smiled. “Excuse us, friends. My daughter’s brought a scene with her. Best if we keep the family drama confined to the study, don’t you think?”
He led the way while my mother followed, eyes glassy and unbothered. Two guards flanked the door as we entered the office, which looked more like the headquarters of a private empire than a workspace. Dark mahogany, a globe bar, books no one read . . . money, power, and control, all in perfect symmetry.
He sat behind the desk like a king on his throne.
I dropped the autopsy report on the polished wood between us. “There are things in there that don’t match up. Bruising. Ligature marks. That’s not an overdose, it’s a coverup.”
