Chapter 4The Weight of Proof

The car smelled of leather and expensive perfume—the kind Vera had learned to identify in her first year of high society work. Elena's scent was roses and something metallic underneath, like blood masked by flowers. The rain drummed a steady rhythm on the roof as the sedan idled at the edge of the pier, headlights cutting through the storm like twin blades.

Vera kept her hand near her jacket pocket. The gun was still there. She hadn't drawn it. She wasn't sure why.

“You look thinner,” Elena said, unscrewing a silver flask. “Stress doesn't suit you, Vera. It makes you sloppy.”

“Tell me about Lily.”

Elena took a long sip, letting the silence stretch. The pier creaked beneath them, waves slapping against the pilings. When she finally spoke, her voice was almost gentle.

“Your sister was a blackmailer. Did you know that?”

Vera's fingers tightened on the door handle. “She was twenty-three. She was scared.”

“She was *good*.” Elena's smile didn't reach her eyes. “She had files on half the board members at Hartley Industries. She knew where the bodies were buried—metaphorically speaking. And she came to me, offering to sell them.”

“You're lying.”

“I have proof.” Elena reached into her coat and pulled out a phone—not the burner, but her personal one. She tapped the screen, and a woman's voice filled the car.

*“Elena. I have the documents on the Mercer deal. I want fifty thousand or I go to the press.”*

Vera's chest seized. She knew that voice. She'd heard it in every nightmare for three years.

Lily.

“She recorded everything,” Elena said, watching Vera's face. “Paranoid girl. She thought it would keep her safe.” A pause. “It didn't.”

“You killed her.”

“I didn't touch her.” Elena's tone was ice. “She jumped because she was cornered. And who cornered her, Vera? Who taught her that manipulation was the only way to survive?”

Vera's mind raced. The files. The clients. The late nights when Lily would ask questions about The Unraveler, and Vera would brush her off with a laugh and a *“You wouldn't like the details, Lil.”*

She'd thought she was protecting her sister.

She'd been giving her a blueprint.

“You're trying to twist this,” Vera said, but her voice cracked on the last word.

Elena's thumb hovered over the screen. “One more recording. This one's my favorite.”

A different voice filled the car. Vera's own voice, tinny through the speaker:

*“Lily, I can't keep bailing you out. You wanted to play in this world, so play. Handle it yourself.”*

Click. The recording stopped.

Vera's hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against her thighs to still them.

“That was the night before she died,” Elena said softly. “She called you. Begged you. And you told her to handle it herself.”

*You did this.*

The words from Vera's nightmare—Lily's voice, accusing, broken—echoed in her skull. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the image wouldn't fade: Lily's face, tear-streaked, desperate, calling her sister for help and hearing only silence.

“She was crying when she jumped,” Elena continued. “The security guard said she kept saying your name. ‘Vera, Vera, Vera.’ Over and over.”

Vera's stomach turned. She gripped the door handle until her knuckles went white.

“Why?” she managed. “Why target Julian? Why drag Morgan into this?”

Elena's smile widened. “Because you're predictable, Vera. You always go for the family. You always think the pain is in the parents, the siblings, the lovers. It's your weakness.”

“And Morgan?” The name felt like glass in her throat.

“Ah. Morgan.” Elena capped the flask, savoring the moment. “She called me, you know. Three weeks ago. Said she knew what you were doing and wanted to protect Julian. I told her I'd ruin him if she didn't feed me information.”

“She told me.”

“She also told me she loved you.”

The words hit like a punch. Vera's breath caught.

“She was terrified for you,” Elena went on, her voice dropping to a mock-sympathetic whisper. “She thought if she played along, I'd leave you alone. She didn't realize you'd already broken her trust by snooping through her phone.”

Vera's phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it.

“Morgan was trying to protect you from me,” Elena said. “And you pushed her away. Again.”

The buzzing continued. Three times. Four.

Vera pulled out her phone. A text from an unknown number:

*I'm here. Don't get out of the car.*

She looked up, and through the rain-streaked window, she saw a figure standing at the edge of the pier.

Morgan.

She was soaked through, her hair plastered to her face, her phone held loosely at her side. She'd followed. *Of course she'd followed.*

“You should go to her,” Elena said, her voice dripping with false kindness. “Before something happens.”

Vera's hand went to the door.

“One more thing.” Elena's tone sharpened. “I have copies of everything. All your clients. All your methods. If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I'll release it all. Every marriage you destroyed. Every family you shattered. You'll be the monster the tabloids call you.”

Vera opened the door. Cold air hit her face, mixing with the rain.

“Vera.” Elena's voice stopped her. “Your sister didn't need a revenge plot. She needed a sister who picked up the phone.”

Vera stepped out into the storm.

The rain was ice against her skin, soaking through her jacket in seconds. She started walking toward Morgan, who was already moving toward her, arms outstretched.

“Vera!” Morgan's voice was barely audible over the wind. “I'm sorry—I should have told you everything—”

“It's okay.” Vera broke into a run. “It's okay, just—”

The shot cracked through the storm like a whip.

Morgan's body jerked. She looked down at her chest, where a dark stain was spreading across her white shirt. Then her knees buckled, and she crumpled to the wet pavement.

Vera's scream tore through the night.

She reached Morgan just as the black sedan's tires squealed against the asphalt, speeding away into the curtain of rain. But she didn't watch it go. She was on her knees, hands pressing against the wound, blood hot and slick between her fingers.

“Morgan. *Morgan.* Stay with me.”

Morgan's eyes were open, but they were unfocused, drifting.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I should have told you I loved you.”

“Don't.” Vera's voice broke. “Don't you dare say goodbye.”

But the rain kept falling, and the blood kept flowing, and somewhere in the distance, the sound of Morgan's last phone call—*I'm here. Don't get out of the car*—echoed in Vera's skull, a warning she'd never heeded.

And for the second time in her life, Vera held someone she loved while they slipped away, powerless to stop it.