Chapter 1 - The Blood TestI dropped my father’s hand as if it had burned me. The damp, metallic smell of the hovel seemed to thicken, pressing down on my chest until every breath scraped my throat. Maya. My sweet, dutiful, art-student-turned-philanthropist sister. Maya, who wore designer cashmere paid for by my showrooms, who cried on the phone every Sunday recounting Dad’s progress at the Sunrise Meadows luxury facility.
"It’s a glitch," I muttered, my voice cracking against the hollow walls. "Maya sends bills. I see invoices. The bank statements—"
"The bank statements are going to a separate account Maya opened behind your back," Lucy interrupted, her tone flat, drained of any triumph. She walked over to the rusty sink, rinsed a plastic spoon, and laid it gently on a paper towel next to my father. "She needed a proxy signature while you were expanding to the New York market two years ago. You signed a general power of attorney at your lawyer's office, remember? You were in such a rush to catch a red-eye flight that you didn't even read the riders."
The memory hit me like a physical blow. Two years ago. A pile of closing documents. A glass of scotch. My lawyer saying, “Just standard operational permissions, Alex.”
I staggered back against the wooden doorframe, my eyes darting from Lucy to my weeping father. "Why didn't you tell me? When you left—when I threw you out—you could have told me then!"
Lucy turned slowly, her eyes flashing with a cold, righteous fury that made me shrink. "And you would have believed me? The man who accused me of stealing because my signature was on a wire transfer Maya forged? The man who threw my suitcase into the rain and told me I was dead to him? I tried to warn you, Alexander. But you looked at me with so much hatred that day, I realized something important: you didn't want the truth. You wanted a scapegoat."
My father let out a ragged, desperate sound, his single working hand clawing at the air between us. He was trying to stop the fight, trying to tell me something vital. I dropped to my knees beside the cot, ignoring the damp rot of the floorboards seeping through my Italian leather shoes.
"Dad," I choked out, grabbing his trembling fingers. "Dad, tell me. Did Maya do this? Did she put you here?"
He squeezed my hand with terrifying strength, his eyes wide, bloodshot, and frantic. He didn't nod. Instead, his gaze shifted toward the rusty drawer Lucy had just opened. With his chin, he pointed weakly at the bottom compartment.
"There's more?" I whispered.
Lucy pulled out a heavy manila envelope, unclasped the metal prongs, and slid out a glossy stack of photographs and a certified toxicology report. She didn't hand them to me. She dropped them on my lap.
"Look at the date on the bloodwork, Alexander," she said softly. "It was run three days before your father suffered his massive stroke. It wasn't natural. And your sister wasn't just paying for a room at Sunrise Meadows—she was paying for something entirely different."
I flipped open the report. My eyes scanned the medical jargon until they locked onto a bold, highlighted toxicology marker: Barbiturate overdose — sustained low-dose administration.
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My blood ran instantly cold. I looked up at Lucy, the room spinning around me. "What are you saying?"
"I’m saying your sister didn't just abandon your father to steal your money," Lucy whispered, leaning down so her face was inches from mine. "She was slowly silencing him because he caught her stealing from your company long before I ever took the blame. And she didn't stop at poisoning him. She’s coming for you next."
