Chapter 3 - THE WATERMELON SEED AND THE SCARRichard slammed his palm down onto the podium, the microphone screeching a high-pitched warning. "She’s lying! This is a malicious, unhinged smear campaign by a bitter woman looking for a payout! Security! Remove her from the premises immediately!"
Not a single security guard moved.
Why? Because near the back of the room, Director Thomas Vance of the FBI’s White-Collar Crime Division—who had been invited as an honorary guest of the Whitmore family—slowly stood up, flashing a gold badge that caught the chandelier light.
"Nobody moves," Vance’s voice boomed across the hall. "Let the lady speak, Mr. Whitmore."
Richard looked wildly around the room. His corporate attorney, a high-priced shark named Henderson, was already frantically typing on his laptop, sweat beading on his forehead.
"You think I’m lying, Richard?" I asked, tilting my head. I reached up, my fingers finding the edge of my left collarbone. With a slow, deliberate movement, I unbuttoned the top two buttons of my navy-blue dress and pulled the fabric slightly to the side.
There, stark and jagged against my skin, was a deep, circular burn scar, roughly the size of a silver dollar.
"July 14th, 1998," I said quietly. "The night of the lab explosion. The night you locked the heavy fire door from the outside while I was still trapped inside trying to save the master servers. You told the police it was an electrical malfunction caused by faulty wiring. But you forgot one detail, Richard..."
I paused, letting the silence stretch until it was suffocating.
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"...you forgot that titanium server racks don't melt at standard electrical fire temperatures. But they do leave forensic traces of industrial accelerant—specifically, the exact brand of kerosene you purchased using your personal credit card at a hardware store three miles from campus."
The ballroom erupted into absolute chaos.
