Constance’s aristocratic mask finally slipped, revealing the jagged, ugly truth underneath. “This is a private family matter, you hysterical woman,” she hissed.
“No, Constance,” I replied, my voice dead and flat. “This is a crime scene.”
Seventeen minutes later, the flashing red and blue lights painted the walls of the condo. As the officers locked the steel cuffs around Spencer’s wrists, he twisted his neck to look at me. He looked as though he wanted to incinerate me with his gaze.
“My family has profound political connections,” he spat, spittle flying from his lips.
I calmly picked up my phone and tapped the screen to save the audio file. “And I have irrefutable forensic evidence.”
As they dragged him through the foyer, I held my weeping daughter on the floor of the multimillion-dollar home she had financed, a home that had become her personal torture chamber. Her body vibrated with aftershocks of adrenaline and terror. And in that suffocating moment, an agonizing truth settled over me like a lead blanket: extricating her from this marble prison was only the prologue.
