Chapter 4

I woke up in a hospital bed, disoriented, weak.

A nurse told me construction workers found me, barely alive.

Hypothermia, severe cardiac distress.

Days had passed.

General Peterson, my father' s old friend, had somehow been alerted. He' d pulled strings to get me proper care.

The first news I received, after my own survival was confirmed, was about my mother.

The official cause of death had been finalized.

"Heart attack induced by extreme distress."

The report stated it occurred on the day of the auction.

The day Cassie dismissed my pleas, the day Marcus taunted me, the day they left me to die.

Their actions, their cruelty, had literally broken my mother's heart, even if Marcus's knife had been the final, brutal instrument.

The irony was a bitter pill.

They said it was the news of the knife at auction, the stress of it all.

No mention of Marcus' s confession to me. No one would believe it.

After a week, they discharged me, still weak, still grieving, but alive.

I took a cab back to the mansion, the place I technically called home.

The house was quiet, too quiet.

I found them in the master bedroom.

Cassie and Marcus.

In our bed.

They weren' t expecting me.

Cassie sat up, pulling the silk sheets around her, a flash of annoyance, not guilt, in her eyes.

Marcus just smirked, lounging back against the pillows, completely at ease.

"Ethan," Cassie said, her voice sharp. "What are you doing here? I thought you were... indisposed."

"I was," I said, my voice raspy. "No thanks to you."

The sight of them, so comfortable, so blatant, fueled a fresh wave of despair and anger.

"He killed my mother," I said, looking straight at Marcus. "He confessed it to me. He described what he did to her."

Cassie scoffed. "Oh, Ethan, still with these delusions? Marcus has been my rock through all this. He even arranged for flowers to be sent for your mother."

Marcus nodded, a parody of sympathy on his face.

"Yes, a lovely arrangement. White lilies, I believe. Though, given the state she was found in... perhaps something more robust would have been appropriate."

He chuckled, a low, ugly sound.

"He told me about her eyes, her tongue," I pressed, my voice shaking. "He enjoyed it."

Cassie stood up, wrapping a robe around herself.

"You' re unwell, Ethan. You need help. Marcus has been nothing but supportive. He' s even helping me manage the... unpleasantness of your mother' s passing."

"Unpleasantness?" I repeated, the word a vile understatement.

"He' s a monster, Cassie. And you' re sleeping with him."

She slapped me.

Hard.

"Get out," she hissed. "Get out of my house."

Marcus watched, a smug, triumphant look on his face.

He picked up the engraved hunting knife from the nightstand.

His "family heirloom."

He ran a thumb along its flat.

"She' s right, Ethan. You should go. You look terrible."

The cold, hard truth settled in.

I had lost everything.

My mother. My wife. My dignity.

And the killer was sleeping in my bed, holding the murder weapon like a trophy.