VALENTINE'S POV
The television screen flickered in my bedroom, and there she was. Imogen Stone, standing behind a podium at Rossi Industries like she owned the place. My oxygen mask felt heavier against my face, the plastic cold and suffocating.
"Good afternoon. My name is Imogen Stone, and I returned to Portland seven years after most people thought I was dead."
I reached for the remote with shaking hands and turned up the volume. The bitch had balls, I'd give her that. Standing there in front of cameras, looking like some tragic heroine from a soap opera.
"I never believed my parents committed suicide. I was there that night in that house. My father looked like he had been forcibly hung and my mother was beaten, tortured and set on fire."
My chest tightened, but not from the usual breathing problems. She was laying it all out there. Every dirty secret, every carefully buried truth.
