Chapter 9 - Ashes and Evidence
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Looking at the crushed, steaming front end of my car, and the long, black skid marks painting the bridge, the chilling reality washed over me.
A fraction of a second slower, and I would have been decapitated under the semi’s trailer, or launched over the concrete barrier into the churning, icy waters of the East River.
When the NYPD and a forensic mechanic arrived under the flashing blue floodlights twenty minutes later, it took them very little time to confirm my darkest suspicion.
The lead mechanic slid out from under the crushed chassis on a gurney, wiping grease from his forehead and holding a high-powered flashlight.
“Ma’am, this wasn't a mechanical failure or normal wear and tear,” the investigating officer told me, his face grim as he looked at my trembling hands wrapped in a paramedic’s blanket.
“Your hydraulic brake lines were severed clean through. Heavy-duty wire snips. Someone deliberately sabotaged this vehicle to ensure you couldn't stop at high speeds.”
Standing in the freezing rain, watching the tow truck haul away my ruined vehicle, the last remaining tether of my humanity burned away, leaving only cold, weaponized flint.
Glass houses shatter easily, Silas had said.
They didn’t just want me quiet; they wanted the Kensington heiress in a morgue.
Any microscopic fragment of mercy I had retained for Vance or his family evaporated into the wet night air. This was no longer a divorce or a corporate dispute. It was a war for survival.
The attempted murder on the bridge sent shockwaves through the NYPD high command. Given Margo Kensington's massive political influence in the city, the District Attorney personally stepped in, launching a full-scale criminal investigation into corporate sabotage and attempted murder.
While tying the hit directly to Richard Sterling without a physical confession was difficult, the intense police heat forced the Sterling syndicate into a paranoid lockdown.
Meanwhile, Declan didn’t sleep for seventy-two hours.
Using his legal authority and private security contacts, he subpoenaed security footage from a luxury high-rise condo complex located directly adjacent to my townhouse parking garage entrance.
We spent hours in the darkened library of the Kensington mansion, squinting at a grainy, rain-streaked monitor until we found our ghost.
At 3:15 AM on the night before the crash, a tall figure in a hooded jacket bypassed my garage security gate by picking the electronic lock.
By enhancing a single frame as the figure passed directly under a streetlamp, Declan’s technical analyst isolated a specific detail on the suspect’s right wrist.
A crude, ink-dark tattoo of a scorpion.
“That’s not Silas,” Declan observed, zooming in on the pixelated image.
“Who is it?” I asked, leaning closer to the screen.
“That’s Jax,” Declan said, his jaw tightening.
“Jax Miller. He’s an enforcer on the direct payroll of Apex Security Solutions—a wholly owned subsidiary of Sterling Apex Group. Jax is Silas’s lieutenant.”
We had it. We had the smoking gun connecting the assassination attempt directly to a company owned and funded by the Sterling family treasury.
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“Print this,” Declan instructed his assistant, his voice brimming with lethal triumph.
“We’re delivering this file directly to the District Attorney’s Organized Crime Division tomorrow morning.”
