He reached for the intercom.
“Stop the transfer. Nobody leaves this facility until we’ve reached the investigators on the Marissa Thorne case.”
What followed took months, not minutes, but it fell exactly the way I’d built it to fall.
Investigators searched the Kentucky farm. They found what Priscilla swore no one would ever find — Marissa’s belongings, and the evidence that turned a five-year-old “disappearance” into a homicide investigation with Roman at its center.
The retired offshore channel I’d traced did the rest. Following that money led auditors straight back through Roman’s “old business,” and straight into how my father had really been made ill — and who had actually handled his medication.
In a courtroom that had once watched Roman weep his crocodile tears, I watched the charges against me collapse, one by one, and new ones rise against him.
The room went d*ad silent as the judge vacated my conviction.
