Chapter 1
My sister was buried on a Tuesday.
Most people had already left the cemetery, and a few relatives stayed behind, talking quietly near the cars.
I stood by the grave a little longer.
The priest had said a lot of things about Elena, kind, bright, full of life, but none of it helped me understand why she was suddenly dead.
The police called it suicide. I didn’t believe them.
Elena and I spoke two days before she died. She complained about work, long hours, and office politics, but she didn’t sound like someone planning to end her life.
If anything, she sounded angry. Angry people usually don’t give up that easily.
I looked at the fresh dirt covering the coffin.
“You always did leave problems for me to solve,” I whispered.
No usual sarcastic response.
I was about to leave when I noticed someone across the road.
A tall man in a dark coat stood beside a black car, watching the funeral.
I recognized him immediately.
Adrian Blackwood, billionaire investor, founder of Blackwood Technologies, and the last man who saw my sister alive.
I doubt he came here to say goodbye.
He just watched from a distance.
Our eyes met, and he didn’t look away.
Interesting. Most people avoid eye contact with the grieving family at funerals. Adrian Blackwood didn’t seem to care.
I started walking toward him.
By the time I reached the road, he was still standing in the same place. Up close, he looked exactly like he did in interviews, calm, well put together, the kind of man who believes he’s better than everyone.
“Mr. Blackwood,” I said.
He nodded.
“You must be Aria Vale.”
So he already knew who I was.
“That saves me the trouble of introducing myself,” I said.
“I make it a habit to know the families of my employees,” he replied.
Polite, probably rehearsed.
“You don’t usually see CEOs at the funerals of junior staff.”
“Your sister worked closely with my team,” he said.
Worked. Past tense.
I watched his face, waiting for any emotion to slip through the calm expression. Nothing did.
“Did you like her?” I asked.
“She was capable,” he answered.
Not exactly warm praise.
“Capable people usually don’t kill themselves,” I said.
The line sounded better in my head, but it only created an awkward silence.
For a second, I wondered if he would reject my claim. Instead, he asked, “You don’t believe the police report.”
“No.”
At least that part was honest.
Cars passed on the road behind us, and someone from my family called my name in the distance, but neither of us moved.
Adrian studied my face as if trying to figure me out. Fair enough, I was doing the same.
“You think I know something about your sister’s death?” he asked.
“I think you were the last person who saw her alive,” I answered.
“According to the police report?”
“Yes.”
A brief pause.
“And what do you plan to do with that suspicion?”
“I’m still deciding.”
Not entirely true, but I had no reason to tell him anything yet.
Adrian glanced back toward the cemetery before returning his gaze to me.
“Be careful, Miss Vale,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because sometimes the answers people look for aren’t the ones they expect.”
A small smile formed on my lips.
“Good,” I replied. “I like surprises.”
For the first time, something shifted in his expression. Not guilt or anger, it was interest. The kind a predator shows when prey steps into its territory.
He opened the car door behind him.
“I’m sure we’ll speak again,” he said.
“Probably.”
One way or another, I was going to find out what happened to my sister, even if it meant stepping into Adrian Blackwood’s world.
I didn’t go back to the motel. I went to my sister’s apartment. I tried the key the police had given me, but the door was unlocked. I muttered under my breath, “Did the police forget to lock it, or did someone break in?”
Inside, everything looked clean and in place, clothes folded, dishes washed, the apartment faintly smelling of her soap.
It felt wrong. Her bedroom was always a mess, with books, papers, and clothes scattered everywhere. Now it was neat.
Too neat. Someone had clearly gone through this place.
I walked to her desk and stopped in front of her laptop. Normally, she locked it with a password, she liked her privacy, but this time it opened immediately.
The screen was empty. Every file, media, and program erased. It looked like a brand new laptop.
The police couldn’t find her phone.
Now the laptop was wiped clean too.
I went to her bookshelf and picked up her diary. The first entry, from a few months ago, was written in her neat handwriting. She wrote about wishing she could tell me about her mistakes, how much she missed me, and the little things we used to do together. A pang of guilt hit me. I had been so busy with my own life and job that I never shared enough with her, and now I never would.
I turned the page. The next entry was dated the day she died. In the corner, she had written, “Christmas presents.” I froze. “What an odd thing to write.”
Then I remembered the gift I bought her last Christmas, an invisible ink pen.
I hurried to the kitchen, found a lighter, and held it under the paper. Slowly, letters appeared. The handwriting was frantic, scrawled, almost unrecognizable. One word repeated over and over, Blackwood, filling the page in uneven lines.
Before I could process it,
I heard a noise from the bathroom.
Someone coughed. I turned. “Who is there?” I called, again and again.
I picked up a silver knife from the counter and moved toward the bathroom. My hand trembled as I reached for the doorknob.
Before I could open it, someone burst out. The door slammed into me, and I fell backward. I looked up and saw a masked figure in a hoodie.
As they tried to run past, I grabbed their legs with my left hand. They struggled, trying to break free. I slashed at them with the knife. They kicked me in the face. Pain exploded across my cheek and nose, hot and sharp. My vision blurred. I tasted blood, my heart hammering in my chest. I let go and forced myself up, steadying my grip on the knife as I pointed it at them.
“Who are you?” I demanded. “What do you want? Did you do it? Did you kill her?”
The person laughed, a high, cruel sound, and sprinted toward the glass window. It shattered as they jumped through. I ran to the window. They landed cleanly. Another masked figure waited on a bike outside. The first walked over, climbed on, and they drove off, leaving me standing there, shaken.
I stood there, frozen, unsure whether to feel surprised or terrified.
Before I could process anything, there was a knock at the door.
