Chapter 2 - THE KILLER'S VOICEThe chapel erupted into absolute pandemonium.
Mourners leaped from their velvet pews, gasping and pointing at the giant screens above the altar. The video feed clearly showed a dimly lit back room in a private Manhattan country club. In clear focus sat Margaret Cole, handing a thick manila envelope of cash to a scarred, professional hitman named Victor Vance.
“Ethan is getting suspicious about the family trust,” Margaret’s recorded voice continued, broadcasting to every guest, politician, and reporter in the room. “Once he’s gone in that 'accident,' his sickly wife inherits nothing, and the entire board reverts to my control. Do it tonight.”
Margaret turned as white as a corpse. Her knees buckled slightly against the polished wooden altar rail.
"Turn that off!" Margaret shrieked, her voice cracking into an unhinged screech as she lunged toward the main control panel by the pulpit. "It's a deepfake! It's an AI fabrication! That girl is insane!"
Vanessa Hart froze in sheer terror, her hands trembling so violently that the antique sapphire ring—my wedding ring—slid off her sweaty finger and clattered loudly against the stone floor.
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I pushed myself up from the marble, pulling my battered frame back into an upright position without any help. I didn't look like a helpless invalid anymore.
"It's not a deepfake, Margaret," I whispered, my raspy voice carrying cleanly through the microphone wired directly to the chapel's audio deck. "Victor Vance wasn't just your hitman. He was a federal informant who wore a wire after I intercepted your first bank transfer."
