Moments later, two men and a woman in discreet uniforms hurried into the house with a stretcher. They looked like paramedics from a private clinic. In reality, they were Frank’s most trusted people.

Vanessa’s sobs filled the hallway as they lifted me.

“Please,” she cried. “Please do everything you can. He’s been so fragile. He hasn’t recovered since we lost Chloe.”

As they carried me out, I heard Colby’s voice, steady and low.

“If the worst happens,” he said to one of the staff, “we’ll need to handle things quietly. No need to involve too many people. He always said he wanted privacy.”

The door closed behind us.

They did not take me to a hospital.

They took me to a small apartment in the city, one of the safe places my father had set up years ago “in case of emergencies.” I had laughed when he showed it to me, never imagining I would one day lie on the narrow bed inside it, listening to the city hum outside while the world believed I had taken my last breath out of pure sorrow.

When Frank unzipped the black transport bag, I sat up, gasping.

A moment later, Chloe rushed forward from the corner where she had been waiting, her eyes wide and wet. We held on to each other as if the floor might open up beneath us.

This time, our embrace was not about relief. It was about resolve.

We had made it to phase two.

Setting the Stage

With the samples of tea and tablets Frank had collected from the house, a friendly lab technician quietly confirmed what we had suspected: the blend of herbs and medication I had been given for weeks would leave anyone exhausted, confused, and physically weak if taken in those doses over time.

It was enough to raise serious questions.

Meanwhile, Frank’s team tracked down the men who had been hired months earlier to “take care of a situation” at the edge of town. Faced with the possibility of serious prison time, they were more than willing to talk. Their statements, given under recording, painted a picture of money changing hands, of orders passed down through intermediaries, of a fire started to “erase an inconvenience.”

We collected everything. Documents. Audio. Video from hidden cameras I hadn’t even realized were still active in parts of the old lake house. On one of the recordings, Vanessa’s voice floated through the speakers, light and almost cheerful as she clinked a glass against Colby’s.