PART 2: Detective Rachel Vance didn’t wait for my mother to stammer out another lie. She stepped forward, her leather gloves creaking as she pulled a sealed evidence bag from her trench coat. Inside were printed copies of the vehicle maintenance logs and the offshore transfer receipts we\u2019d recovered from the safe.
\n\u201cEdward,\u201d Detective Vance said, her voice dripping with cold authority. \u201cYour wife secretly took out a thirty-million-dollar policy on your life last month. She was never going to split the trust with you. You were her next target.\u201d
\nEdward\u2019s head snapped toward Patricia. The blood drained from his face until he looked like a corpse. \u201cYou absolute monster…\u201d he choked out, lunging across the room before two security guards slammed him against the stainless-steel sink.
\nPatricia shrieked, but her voice was cut short by the sharp, metallic click of handcuffs around her manicured wrists.
\nI squeezed Clara’s hand tightly. The monsters were finally tearing each other apart. But as federal agents flooded the hallway, I realized the deadliest secret was still waiting for us under the floorboards of our father’s estate….com<\/p>\n
Chapter 1: The Protocol<\/b><\/p>\n
The fluorescent lights of the emergency room buzzed with an aggressive, relentless hum. It was a suffocating, sterile white that made my eyes water, though that could have also been the sharp, astringent smell of rubbing alcohol and iodine. I lay rigid on the thin, crinkling paper of the examination table. Every intake of breath felt like a shard of glass sliding between my ribs, a stark reminder of the cost of tonight\u2019s performance.<\/p>\n
To my left, on the adjoining stretcher, lay my twin sister, Clara. Her dark hair, usually a curtain of silk, was matted with dried blood at the temple. Her eyes were wide, vacant, staring blankly at the ceiling tiles as she rocked slightly, humming a discordant, eerie tune. It was a terrifying sight. Or, it would have been, if I didn\u2019t know it was an Oscar-worthy performance she had been perfecting for the last three months. My hand hung off the side of my bed, my fingertips just barely brushing against the cold railing of hers.<\/p>\n
Standing at the foot of my bed was Dr. Sarah Miller. She was a veteran of the ER, a woman whose tired eyes had seen the absolute worst of human nature. She was currently running gloved fingers over the deep, identical purple welts blooming across my forearms\u2014textbook defensive wounds.<\/p>\n
Standing in the corner of the room, as far away from us as physically possible, were our captors.<\/p>\n
My stepfather, Edward Vance<\/b>, leaned casually against the stainless-steel sink. He wasn\u2019t a raving, wild-eyed monster. He was a terrifyingly composed, sociopathic real estate mogul. He wore a bespoke charcoal suit that likely cost more than the MRI machine down the hall. He was currently washing his hands, methodically scrubbing his cuticles with soap, entirely unbothered.<\/p>\n
Beside him stood my mother, Patricia<\/b>. She was the picture of distressed, wealthy elegance. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her makeup flawless despite it being past midnight. She clutched her quilted Chanel handbag so tightly her knuckles were bone-white, playing the role of the distraught matriarch to perfection.<\/p>\n
Dr. Miller looked up from my bruised arms. \u201cDid both girls manage to fall down the grand staircase and sustain identical defensive contusions?\u201d she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.<\/p>\n
Patricia didn\u2019t miss a beat. She offered a smooth, practiced sigh of maternal exhaustion. \u201cThey\u2019re identical twins, Doctor. I know it sounds strange, but they even imitate each other when they\u2019re manic. Clara had another one of her\u2026 episodes. Phoebe tried to restrain her. It was a chaotic tangle of limbs. It\u2019s a miracle it wasn\u2019t worse.\u201d<\/p>\n
Edward dried his hands, tossing the paper towel gracefully into the bin. \u201cLook, Doctor, we appreciate your thoroughness. But it\u2019s been a long night. Just patch them up, give Clara her sedatives, and let us go. They have a very important transfer tomorrow morning to a specialized care facility.\u201d<\/p>\n
He took a step forward, assuming his wealth, his tone, and his sheer presence would bend reality to his will. He assumed he was in control. He didn\u2019t know I had spent the last ninety days engineering his total annihilation.<\/p>\n
Dr. Miller didn\u2019t write a prescription. She didn\u2019t look at Edward. Instead, she leaned in close to me, adjusting the blood pressure cuff on my arm. As she leaned over, she whispered, so softly only I could hear, \u201cI read the hidden text in the online triage form, Phoebe. Code Icarus.\u201d<\/p>\n
My breath hitched.<\/p>\n
Eight years ago, before my biological father, Daniel Sterling<\/b>, died, he had quietly funded Dr. Miller\u2019s entire medical school tuition when she was a struggling, brilliant student facing bankruptcy. She owed him her life. I had discovered her name in his old journals, and tonight, while in the ambulance, I had hacked the hospital\u2019s patient portal, embedding a specific SOS code my father used to use for corporate emergencies. Code Icarus<\/i>.<\/p>\n
Dr. Miller stood up, her face an unreadable mask of clinical detachment. She walked toward the heavy wooden door of the examination room.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d Edward snapped, his patience fraying.<\/p>\n
\u201cHospital policy, Mr. Vance,\u201d Dr. Miller said coldly.<\/p>\n
She stepped outside and pulled the heavy door shut behind her. A second later, the electronic deadbolt engaged with a deafening, echoing thud. A red light flashed above the door frame. Lockdown.<\/i><\/p>\n
Edward froze. Patricia gasped, her hand flying to her throat.<\/p>\n
But that wasn\u2019t the sound that made my stepfather\u2019s blood run cold. It was the sudden, violent vibration of his cell phone in his breast pocket. Then Patricia\u2019s phone started ringing in her purse.<\/p>\n
I looked up at the ceiling and smiled through the pain. Because they were about to realize that the sound of my ribs cracking hadn\u2019t just been recorded.<\/p>\n
It had been broadcasted.<\/p>\n