PART 2
The emergency room doors burst open before the ambulance had fully stopped.
Bright lights rushed above me as paramedics pushed my stretcher through a corridor filled with hurried footsteps, ringing phones, and clipped medical commands. Every movement sent another bolt of agony through the left side of my face.
“Twenty-seven-year-old female,” one paramedic announced. “Blunt-force trauma to the orbital region. Brief loss of consciousness. Heavy bleeding at the scene. Possible facial fractures.”
“Assault?” a nurse asked.
“Witnessed assault. Police are on the way.”
The word settled over me like ice.
**Assault.**
Until that moment, some foolish part of me had still wanted to call it an accident. A family argument. A terrible mistake made in anger.
But my father had picked up a brick.
He had aimed it at my face.
And after I fell, my mother had laughed.
A doctor leaned over me, her expression calm but urgent.
“My name is Dr. Evelyn Hart. Sadie, can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.”
“Do you know what happened?”
My throat tightened.
“My father hit me with a brick.”
The doctor’s eyes changed—not with shock, but with a controlled kind of anger.
“All right. We’re going to take care of you.”
Wyatt appeared beside the stretcher, his shirt torn at the shoulder and his hands scratched from the rose bushes.
“I’m her fiancé.”
A nurse tried to stop him.
“You need to wait outside.”
“No.” I reached blindly for him. “Please.”
Wyatt caught my hand.
“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m not leaving.”
They cut away part of my dress to check for other injuries. A nurse cleaned blood from my neck while another placed an IV in my arm. The ceiling blurred whenever I tried to focus.
I could still see my mother’s smile.
I could still hear Melanie saying, **“I told you she wouldn’t move.”**
Dr. Hart examined my left eye carefully.
“Sadie, your eyelid is badly swollen. I need you not to force it open.”
“Am I blind?”
“We don’t know yet.”
The fear that entered my chest was so sharp that for a moment it hurt worse than my broken face.
Wyatt squeezed my hand.
“No matter what happens, I’m here.”
I turned my right eye toward him.
His face was pale. His jaw trembled with rage. There was blood on his cuff—my blood.
“My mother said you wouldn’t love me anymore.”
His expression broke.
“Don’t listen to her.”
“She said—”
“I heard what she said.”
He bent close enough that his forehead nearly touched mine.
“I loved you before tonight. I love you now. And I will love you through every surgery, every scar, every nightmare, and every courtroom.”
A tear slipped from my right eye.
It traveled into my hair.
Dr. Hart looked away for a moment, giving us the privacy of silence.
Then she straightened.
“We need imaging immediately. Before that, because this was an assault, I want a forensic nurse to document every injury.”
“Yes,” I whispered.
The nurse arrived carrying a camera, evidence bags, and a stack of forms.
She photographed my face from every angle. The swelling. The cuts. The bruises beginning to rise beneath my skin.
She sealed pieces of my bloodstained dress in a paper bag.
“We’ll preserve everything properly,” she assured me.
“Please keep all of it.”
“We will.”
“And write down what I say.”
The nurse nodded.
“My father attacked me because my fiancé refused to leave me for my sister.”
The sentence sounded impossible when spoken aloud.
Yet every word was true.
While they prepared me for the CT scan, a police officer entered the room. He introduced himself as Detective Aaron Beckett.
He was in his early forties, with tired eyes and a voice that made no promises.
“Ms. Davis, I understand you’re in pain. I’ll keep this brief.”
“My family planned it.”
Wyatt glanced at me.
Detective Beckett pulled a chair closer.
“What makes you believe that?”
“They kept saying I wouldn’t move. My sister said they had asked nicely. My father told Wyatt he had to marry Melanie. And then—”
My voice cracked.
“There was an old man inside the house.”
“What old man?”
“I don’t know. I saw him behind the curtain when the ambulance took me away.”
Detective Beckett wrote it down.
“Had you ever seen him before?”
“No.”
“Did he appear to be in danger?”
“I don’t know. He looked frightened.”
The detective nodded.
“We’ll check the residence.”
A second officer appeared at the doorway and motioned to him.
Detective Beckett stepped outside, but the door did not fully close.
I heard the officer say, “We’ve got witnesses.”
“How many?”
“Six so far.”
Wyatt’s head lifted.
The officer continued.
“An electrician saw the father holding the brick. Two delivery drivers were across the street. A mail carrier heard the argument. A neighbor recorded part of it from her porch. Landscaper says the family had been digging behind the garage all afternoon.”
Digging?
I looked at Wyatt.
He had heard it too.
Detective Beckett returned to the room with a different expression.
“Ms. Davis, several people have provided statements supporting your account.”
“Did you arrest them?”
“Your father is in custody. Your mother and sister are being questioned.”
“And the old man?”
“We haven’t found him yet.”
The words sent a chill through me.
“Then look harder.”
“We will.”
Before he could say more, an orderly arrived to take me for imaging.
The scan showed three fractures around my left eye, a broken cheekbone, and a deep laceration that required surgery.
But the ophthalmologist brought the first small mercy of the night.
“My preliminary examination suggests your eye itself is intact,” he said. “The swelling and bleeding are affecting your vision, but I believe there is a strong chance it will return.”
Wyatt exhaled like a man surfacing from deep water.
I closed my right eye.
For the first time since the brick struck me, hope entered the room.
It lasted less than a minute.
When we returned to the treatment area, a hospital volunteer was waiting near my door.
She was an elderly woman with silver hair and kind eyes. In her hands was a cream-colored envelope.
“Are you Sadie Davis?”
“Yes.”
“A gentleman asked me to give this to you.”
“What gentleman?”
“He wouldn’t give his name. He seemed nervous.”
Wyatt took the envelope before anyone else could touch it.
“Where is he?”
“He left through the main entrance.”
“What did he look like?”
“Older. Gray coat. He walked with a cane.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“Was he the man from my parents’ house?”
“I wouldn’t know, dear.”
Wyatt examined the envelope. My name was written across the front in shaky blue ink.
There was no return address.
Detective Beckett arrived as Wyatt opened it.
Inside was a faded business card belonging to an estate attorney named **Samuel Grayson**.
On the back were six handwritten words:
**ASK ABOUT YOUR GRANDFATHER’S FINAL WILL.**
I stared at the message.
My grandfather Harold had died twelve years earlier.
According to my parents, he had left behind little more than medical debt, an old watch, and the house they already lived in.
There had never been a family reading of the will.
No lawyer had contacted me.
No one had ever mentioned Samuel Grayson.
“My grandfather’s estate was settled years ago,” I said.
Detective Beckett studied the card.
“Are you sure?”
“That’s what my parents told me.”
Wyatt pulled out his phone.
“I’m calling the attorney.”
“It’s after midnight,” the detective said.
“I don’t care.”
The number on the card rang twice.
Then a man answered.
“Grayson.”
“My name is Wyatt Cole. I’m calling on behalf of Sadie Davis, granddaughter of Harold Davis.”
Silence followed.
Then the man’s voice became guarded.
“Where did you get this number?”
“Someone delivered your card to Sadie at the hospital.”
Another long silence.
“Is she safe?”
The question made everyone in the room still.
“For the moment,” Wyatt answered.
“Put me on speaker.”
Wyatt did.
Mr. Grayson spoke carefully.
“Sadie, I need you to listen. Your grandfather prepared a revised will six months before his death. Under that will, you inherited controlling ownership of Davis Development Holdings.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was absurd.
“My grandfather didn’t own a development company.”
“Yes, he did.”
“My parents said he was nearly broke.”
“They lied.”
The detective stepped closer.
Mr. Grayson continued.
“Davis Development owns commercial land, several apartment buildings, and a substantial portion of the block where your parents currently live.”
The pain medication made the room feel distant, yet his words cut through the fog.
“How much is it worth?”
“I cannot give you an exact current valuation without updated appraisals.”
“An estimate.”
“Between twelve and eighteen million dollars.”
Wyatt stared at the phone.
I stopped breathing.
Mr. Grayson’s voice softened.
“Your grandfather distrusted your father. He believed your parents were pressuring him to change his estate plan. He placed the assets in a trust and named you the primary beneficiary.”
“Then why didn’t I know?”
“Because the trust required you to be formally notified on your twenty-eighth birthday.”
I was twenty-seven.
My birthday was in six weeks.
“Why would he wait?”
“He believed you would be safer once you were older and financially independent.”
A bitter sound escaped me.
“He was wrong.”
“No,” Mr. Grayson said quietly. “He may have been too late.”
Detective Beckett asked, “What do you mean?”
The attorney hesitated.
“Three weeks ago, someone attempted to obtain certified copies of the trust documents using a forged authorization bearing Sadie’s signature.”
Wyatt’s face hardened.
“Who?”
“The request came through a company connected to Melanie Davis.”
My stomach twisted.
“What company?”
“Melrose Residential Partners.”
I recognized the name immediately.
Melanie had claimed it was a small interior-design business.
She had posted pictures online of luxury apartments, expensive furniture, and champagne celebrations. My mother praised her constantly for becoming an entrepreneur.
But Melanie had never explained how she made money.
Mr. Grayson continued.
“After the forged request failed, someone filed documents claiming Sadie had voluntarily transferred her beneficial interest.”
“I never signed anything.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because your grandfather required any transfer to be witnessed by me in person.”
Detective Beckett leaned toward the phone.
“Mr. Grayson, can you send those records to law enforcement?”
“I can send copies immediately, but there’s something else.”
A strange pressure built in my chest.
“What?”
“This morning, a deed was filed transferring your parents’ residence and two adjacent parcels to Melrose Residential Partners.”
The hospital room seemed to tilt.
Wyatt gripped the bedrail.
“The attack happened tonight,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Then the transfer was filed before Sadie arrived at the house.”
“Yes.”
Detective Beckett’s expression became grim.
“That suggests premeditation.”
Mr. Grayson lowered his voice.
“It suggests they expected Sadie to be unable to challenge the documents.”
My right hand began trembling.
Unable.
Dead?
Unconscious?
Disfigured and broken enough to disappear?
I remembered my mother’s laugh.
**Let’s see if Wyatt still loves you with that face.**
Maybe the attack had never been only about Wyatt.
Maybe Melanie’s obsession with him had been the perfect excuse.
A story they could use to disguise a much older, uglier motive.
Wyatt saw the realization on my face.
“They wanted the trust,” he whispered.
“And they wanted me out of the way.”
Detective Beckett stepped into the hallway and made a call.
Within minutes, officers were sent back to my parents’ house with instructions to secure computers, financial records, and any documents connected to Melrose Residential Partners.
Then Beckett received a message.
His gaze moved from the screen to me.
“The old man has been found.”
“Where?”
“Two blocks from the house. A patrol officer found him sitting at a bus stop.”
“Who is he?”
“He says his name is Walter Pike.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“Why was he in their house?”
“He claims he used to work for your grandfather.”
My pulse quickened.
“Bring him here.”
“That may not be possible.”
“Why?”
“He’s being transported to another hospital. He appears to have been drugged.”
Wyatt’s hand tightened around mine.
Detective Beckett continued.
“He told the officer your parents had been keeping him in the basement since yesterday.”
A coldness spread through me that no blanket could stop.
My parents had not merely planned an attack.
They had imprisoned a witness.
“Is he going to live?”
“We think so.”
“What did he see?”
“He hasn’t given a full statement yet.”
Dr. Hart entered before I could ask more.
“We need to take Sadie into surgery.”
“I’m not finished,” I protested.
“You have internal bleeding around the fracture. This cannot wait.”
Detective Beckett put away his notebook.
“We’ll continue when you’re stable.”
As the nurses prepared to move me, Wyatt bent down.
“I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“What if my parents come?”
“They won’t get near you.”
“What if Melanie runs?”
“She won’t get far.”
His confidence should have comforted me.
Instead, fear pressed harder against my ribs.
Because Melanie had always been underestimated.
She smiled beautifully, dressed carefully, and cried whenever someone confronted her.
Growing up, she could break a lamp and convince my parents I had done it.
She once stole money from my purse, then accused me of being jealous when I found it in her room.
She didn’t lie like an amateur.
She lied until the truth felt cruel.
As they wheeled me toward surgery, I caught Wyatt’s sleeve.
“Don’t believe anything she says.”
“I won’t.”
“She’ll make herself the victim.”
“Not this time.”
The operating room doors opened.
The last thing I saw was Wyatt standing beneath the fluorescent lights, covered in my blood and looking ready to burn the world down for me.
When I woke, dawn had begun to soften the sky outside my window.
My face was wrapped in bandages. Pain pulsed beneath them, heavy and deep.
For a few seconds, I didn’t remember where I was.
Then Wyatt leaned forward from the chair beside my bed.
“Hey.”
His voice cracked.
I tried to speak, but my mouth was dry.
He raised a cup of water and held the straw carefully.
“Slowly.”
“Did they fix it?”
“The surgery went well.”
“My eye?”
“The doctor still believes your vision will return.”
I let out a weak breath.
Wyatt brushed his fingers over the back of my hand.
“You were in surgery for almost four hours.”
“Police?”
His expression darkened.
“Your father has been charged with felony assault.”
“My mother?”
“Arrested for conspiracy and obstruction.”
“Melanie?”
He hesitated.
That hesitation told me everything.
“She ran.”
I closed my right eye.
“Of course she did.”
“They found her car at the airport.”
“Did she get on a plane?”
“No. Security footage shows her leaving in another vehicle.”
“Whose?”
“They’re still checking.”
I stared at the pale morning light.
“She planned an escape.”
“It looks that way.”
“No. She planned everything.”
Wyatt did not argue.
A knock sounded at the door.
Detective Beckett entered with a woman in a navy suit carrying a laptop and a thick file.
“This is Assistant District Attorney Lena Morris.”
The woman offered me a gentle nod.
“Ms. Davis, I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances.”
“What did you find?”
She and Beckett exchanged a look.
Beckett closed the door.
“The search of your parents’ house uncovered several forged documents bearing your name.”
“How many?”
“Twenty-three.”
The number stunned me.
“Bank authorizations, property transfers, trust waivers, and a document stating you intended to leave the country permanently.”
“I’ve never even had a passport.”
“We know.”
Lena Morris opened the file.
“They also drafted a letter supposedly written by you.”
“What did it say?”
“That you were ending your engagement, cutting contact with your family, and moving abroad due to emotional instability.”
Wyatt stood so quickly that his chair scraped the floor.
“They were going to make her disappear.”
The prosecutor’s expression remained controlled.
“That is one possibility.”
“One possibility?” he snapped.
“Wyatt,” I whispered.
He looked at me, then forced himself to sit.
Detective Beckett continued.
“We also found a recent life insurance policy.”
My stomach clenched.
“On whom?”
“You.”
“For how much?”
“Two million dollars.”
“Who was the beneficiary?”
“Melrose Residential Partners.”
The room went silent.
I could hear the heart monitor beside me.
Steady.
Mechanical.
Proof that I was still alive.
“I never purchased a policy.”
“The application appears to contain a forged medical examination and forged signatures.”
Lena Morris opened another document.
“There is also evidence your parents took out loans using property that should have belonged to your trust.”
“How much?”
“Nearly four million dollars.”
Wyatt looked sick.
I stared at the bandages covering my hands where the nurses had cleaned dried blood from beneath my nails.
My parents had stolen my inheritance.
My sister had built a company from it.
And when the truth was about to surface, they had decided to erase me.
“What about Walter?” I asked.
Detective Beckett’s jaw tightened.
“He’s awake.”
“Did he talk?”
“Yes.”
The detective pulled his chair closer.
“Walter Pike was your grandfather’s accountant. He discovered irregular withdrawals shortly before Harold’s death.”
“What kind of withdrawals?”
“Money transferred to accounts controlled by your father.”
I struggled to process it.
“Why didn’t he report it?”
“He tried.”
“What happened?”
“Your grandfather died before they could confront your father publicly.”
I looked from Beckett to the prosecutor.
“How did my grandfather die?”
Neither answered immediately.
The silence was more frightening than any accusation.
“My parents said it was a heart attack.”
“That was the official cause,” Beckett said.
“Official?”
“Walter claims Harold believed someone was tampering with his medication.”
Wyatt stood again, this time without apology.
“You think they killed him?”
“We don’t know,” Lena Morris replied. “The body was cremated, so proving poisoning after twelve years may be difficult.”
My grandfather’s funeral flashed through my mind.
My father had stood beside the casket greeting mourners with red eyes and shaking hands.
My mother had held Melanie close.
I had been fifteen, lost and confused.
I remembered asking why Grandpa’s silver watch had disappeared.
Dad told me it had been sold to pay hospital bills.
Now I wondered whether anything from that time had been true.
“Why was Walter in their basement?” I asked.
Detective Beckett opened his notebook.
“He received a message yesterday asking him to meet someone at the house. The message appeared to come from Mr. Grayson.”
“But it didn’t.”
“No. Walter says your mother served him coffee. After drinking it, he became disoriented. When he woke, he was locked downstairs.”
“What did they want from him?”
“A key.”
“What key?”
Beckett looked at the prosecutor again.
This time she nodded.
“Walter says your grandfather kept a private safe-deposit box under another name.”
“Why?”
“Because he feared your father would destroy evidence.”
“What was inside?”
“Walter doesn’t know. He had one key. Your grandfather kept the other.”
“Did my parents find Walter’s key?”
“No.”
A strange flicker of hope moved through me.
“Where is it?”
“Walter says he mailed it to you three days ago.”
I frowned.
“I didn’t receive anything.”
Wyatt took out his phone.
“Our apartment has a secure mailroom. I’ll call the building manager.”
He stepped into the hallway.
The prosecutor closed the file.
“There is one more thing you should understand.”
“What?”
“Your twenty-eighth birthday is six weeks away.”
“I know.”
“According to the trust, full control transfers to you on that date.”
“So my family had six weeks to stop it.”
“Yes.”
“Why attack me now?”
“We believe Mr. Grayson planned to notify you early because of the forged transfer request.”
I turned toward the window.
“So they knew the truth was coming.”
“It appears so.”
A bitter laugh slipped from my throat, making my face ache.
“All these years, I thought they hated me because Melanie was prettier. Because she was easier. Because I never learned how to stay quiet.”
Lena Morris’s expression softened.
“They may have needed you to believe that.”
The words struck harder than expected.
Maybe every insult had served a purpose.
Maybe my parents had spent years convincing me I was unwanted so I would never question why I received nothing.
Why Melanie drove expensive cars.
Why my father suddenly had money for vacations.
Why my mother always changed the subject whenever Grandpa’s name came up.
They had not only stolen my inheritance.
They had stolen my understanding of my own life.
Wyatt returned.
“The package is there.”
My heart jumped.
“Are you sure?”
“The manager checked the log. It arrived yesterday and requires my signature or yours.”
Detective Beckett stood.
“No one touches it until law enforcement collects it.”
Wyatt nodded.
“We’ll meet your officers there.”
Lena Morris packed away the documents.
“Sadie, we’ll place security outside your room.”
“Because Melanie is still missing?”
“Yes.”
“She won’t come here.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because she thinks I’m weak.”
The prosecutor studied me.
“And is she right?”
I looked at Wyatt.
At the torn shirt he still had not changed.
At Detective Beckett’s evidence file.
At the bandages covering the face my mother believed would destroy my future.
“No,” I said.
“She’s never been more wrong.”
By afternoon, the swelling around my eye had worsened, but my vision began to return in fragments.
Light first.
Then color.
Then the blurred outline of Wyatt’s face.
He cried when I told him I could see him.
I tried to smile, but the stitches pulled painfully.
“You look terrible,” I whispered.
He laughed through his tears.
“So do you.”
“That’s rude.”
“You started it.”
For one precious moment, the hospital room felt almost normal.
Then Detective Beckett returned carrying a sealed evidence bag.
Inside was a small brass key.
The package from my apartment had contained nothing else.
“No note?” I asked.
“No.”
“Where is the safe-deposit box?”
“Walter gave us the bank.”
“Have you opened it?”
“We need either your authorization as trust beneficiary or a warrant.”
“You have my authorization.”
Lena Morris entered behind him with papers prepared.
I signed as carefully as my trembling hand allowed.
Two hours later, Detective Beckett called from the bank.
“We opened the box.”
Wyatt put the phone on speaker.
“What was inside?” I asked.
“Financial ledgers, copies of your grandfather’s medical records, audio tapes, and photographs.”
“Photographs of what?”
“Meetings between your father and a private lender. Also several pictures of Melanie entering a pharmacy using your grandfather’s prescription card.”
My breath stopped.
“How old was she?”
“Fifteen.”
The same age I had been when Grandpa died.
Melanie had been a child.
But children could be manipulated.
Children could also lie.
“What’s on the tapes?”
“We haven’t listened to all of them.”
“All?”
“There are seventeen.”
The prosecutor’s voice came through the phone.
“One is labeled with the date two days before your grandfather’s death.”
Wyatt’s hand found mine.
“Play it,” I said.
“Sadie,” Lena warned, “you may not be ready.”
“I have spent twelve years believing a lie. Play it.”
There was a pause.
Then static filled the speaker.
My grandfather’s voice emerged, weak but unmistakable.
“If anything happens to me, Arthur is responsible.”
Arthur.
My father.
The recording continued.
“He has taken money from the company. Marianne knows. She helped him hide it.”
My mother.
A chair scraped in the background.
Then Grandpa spoke again.
“Melanie delivered the pills, but I do not believe she understood what they were.”
I closed my eyes.
On the tape, my grandfather coughed.
“Sadie must be protected. She is the only one who refused their money. The only one who still asks questions.”
Tears burned my right eye.
I remembered him teaching me to ride a bicycle.
Showing me how to plant tomatoes.
Telling me that honesty was expensive but always worth the price.
Then another voice entered the recording.
A woman’s voice.
My mother’s.
“You should have changed the will when Arthur asked.”
Grandpa answered, “You will never touch what belongs to Sadie.”
My mother laughed softly.
It was the same laugh I had heard while bleeding on the lawn.
Then the tape ended.
No one spoke.
Not Wyatt.
Not the detective.
Not the prosecutor.
The silence carried its own verdict.
My parents had spent twelve years thinking the evidence was gone.
Walter had saved it.
Grandpa had hidden it.
And now it belonged to me.
Detective Beckett finally spoke.
“We’re reopening the investigation into your grandfather’s death.”
“Will the tape be enough?”
“Not alone.”
“But the medical records may show medication irregularities,” Lena added. “The financial evidence establishes motive. Walter can testify. And your mother’s voice on the recording places her in the room.”
“What about Melanie?”
“We still need to find her.”
As if summoned by her name, Wyatt’s phone vibrated.
A message appeared from an unknown number.
He opened it.
There was a photograph attached.
It showed Melanie sitting in the back seat of a car.
Her makeup was smeared. Her eyes were swollen from crying. One hand was pressed against the window.
Beneath the photograph was a message.
**SHE DIDN’T RUN. WE TOOK HER.**
My blood turned cold.
Another message arrived immediately.
**COME TO THE OLD DAVIS WAREHOUSE ALONE IF YOU WANT YOUR SISTER ALIVE.**
Detective Beckett reached for the phone.
“Do not respond.”
But I was staring at the photograph.
Something was wrong.
Melanie looked terrified.
Yet beneath her fear, I saw something familiar.
Control.
Her mascara was smeared too perfectly.
Her face was angled toward the camera.
And the hand pressed to the glass showed no restraints.
“This is staged,” I whispered.
Wyatt looked at me.
“How can you know?”
“Because Melanie never cries without checking how she looks.”
Detective Beckett enlarged the photograph.
In the reflection of the car window, a man’s face appeared faintly.
Walter Pike.
I stared at it.
“That’s impossible. Walter is in the hospital.”
Beckett’s expression hardened.
“He was.”
“What do you mean?”
“He disappeared twenty minutes ago.”
The room seemed to shrink around me.
The frightened old man.
The hidden witness.
The loyal accountant who had preserved my grandfather’s secrets.
The person who had mailed me the key.
He was not merely a victim.
He was part of whatever came next.
Then a final message arrived.
This one contained no photograph.
Only seven words.
**YOUR GRANDFATHER’S WILL WAS NEVER ABOUT MONEY.**
I read the sentence twice.
“What does that mean?” Wyatt asked.
I looked at the brass key inside the evidence bag.
At the hospital window reflecting my bandaged face.
At the life I thought I understood collapsing piece by piece.
Somewhere in Columbus, Melanie and Walter were together.
My grandfather had hidden millions.
My parents had tried to kill me for them.
And yet the last message claimed the fortune was not the real secret.
Detective Beckett’s phone rang.
He answered, listened, and slowly turned toward me.
“What?” I demanded.
His face had gone pale.
“The warehouse mentioned in the message burned down twelve years ago.”
“The year Grandpa died?”
“Yes.”
“Then why send us there?”
“Because,” he said, “the property was rebuilt underground.”
Wyatt frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Beckett looked directly at me.
“It means there is a secured room beneath the ruins.”
“What kind of room?”
The detective hesitated.
“A medical laboratory.”
My grandfather had been a property developer.
Not a doctor.
Not a scientist.
There was no reason for him to own a hidden laboratory beneath an abandoned warehouse.
Unless Davis Development had never been only a real-estate company.
Unless the money, the forged papers, the stolen medicine, and even my grandfather’s death were connected to something far larger than our family.
I gripped Wyatt’s hand.
For the first time, I wondered whether my parents had attacked me to steal my inheritance—
or to stop me from discovering what my grandfather had buried beneath the city.
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