“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.”
