The early morning light filtered softly through the gauzy curtains, casting pale golden stripes across the bed. Amara stirred, her eyes fluttering open. For a moment, the world was silent—peaceful, still. But then the weight of the night before came crashing down on her like a tidal wave. Her body ached, not from exhaustion, but from the hollow ache lodged deep in her chest.
The spot beside her in the bed was empty. The sheets, once warm and tangled from their shared heat, had gone cold.
Empty. Just like she felt now.
Amara sat up slowly, wrapping the crumpled sheet around her chest. Her breath caught in her throat, and she brought her knees to her chest, hugging them tightly. The scent of him still clung to the pillow beside her—dark musk, something crisp like citrus, and a hint of smoke. It was intoxicating. It was unbearable.
She buried her face in her hands. Shame rolled over her in crashing waves. Last night had been something she could never undo. Something raw, consuming—something that had felt almost sacred. But when it ended, when the heat between them had died down to ashes, Rafael had turned away from her without a word.
No soft whisper. No lingering gaze.
He hadn't even looked back.
He'd shut himself off so suddenly it left her reeling. One minute his hands were on her like she was something he couldn't live without—and the next, he was cold steel, a mask of indifference. She'd seen the flicker of conflict in his eyes, like he was fighting a battle within himself.
And whatever won had pushed her out.
The sob that escaped her throat was small, but it cracked her open. She curled tighter, as if she could make herself small enough to disappear into the mattress. She didn't know what was worse—the pleasure or the rejection that followed. Her fingers dug into her hair.
A knock pounded at the bathroom door attached to the bedroom.
"Amara! If you flooded the damn sink again, I swear to God, I'll break this door down myself!" Leah's voice, sharp and frazzled, was muffled through the wood.
Amara didn't answer. She couldn't. Her mouth opened, but no sound came.
Then another knock, harder this time.
"Okay, that's it," Leah barked. "I'm opening it. If you're naked, too bad!"
The door burst open, and Leah strode in, only to stop in her tracks at the sight of Amara curled in the corner of the bed, eyes puffy, hair a mess, and face blotchy with tears. The momentary irritation in Leah's eyes was replaced instantly by concern.
"Oh my God. What happened?"
Amara could barely look at her. "Don't," she said hoarsely. "Don't ask me that."
Leah sat beside her without a word, rubbing gentle circles on Amara's back, waiting until her breathing steadied. She didn't push. Didn't demand. Just... waited.
When Amara finally found the strength to speak, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"It happened."
Leah turned toward her slowly. "What do you mean, 'it happened'?"
"With Rafael. Last night." Amara's eyes burned, but she refused to cry again. "We... I let it happen. And then he just—changed."
Leah's brows furrowed. "Changed how?"
"Cold. Silent. Like he didn't even recognize me." She let out a bitter laugh. "Like I was just some... disposable distraction."
Leah let out a long breath and looked away. "That bastard," she muttered. "I knew he was trouble the second I saw that glint in his eye. You should've told me. I would've burned his apartment down."
"I don't think he meant to hurt me," Amara whispered, her voice trembling. "He was... different. For a moment, he was real. Soft. But then something took over. Like he remembered he wasn't allowed to feel anything."
Leah's gaze softened as she studied her friend. "That doesn't make it okay. He doesn't get to wreck you and walk away."
"I don't think he's free, Leah," Amara said quietly. "It's like something owns him. Or haunts him."
Leah didn't reply to that. She simply pulled Amara into a tight embrace.
And then—her phone rang.
Still holding Amara, she fumbled for it, glancing at the screen. Her brows shot up. "It's the police."
Amara's heart dropped. "Police? Why—?"
Leah stood quickly, answering the call. "Hello? Yes. This is she. What? Are you sure?" She glanced down at Amara, her face going pale. "Oh my God."
She hung up, then turned slowly to Amara, her expression unreadable.
"What is it?" Amara asked, her heart hammering. "Leah, what's going on?"
"They reopened the case."
"What case?"
Leah walked over and knelt in front of her. "Your parents', Amara. The murder-suicide... They've reopened it. A witness came forward. They want to talk to you."
Amara blinked, the world spinning. "That can't be. It's been over a decade. There was no one. No one ever said—"
"They say the witness knew something back then but was threatened into silence," Leah said, her voice steadying. "But now he's come forward."
Amara stared at her, unable to comprehend what she was hearing. Her entire life, she'd lived with the lie. The story everyone told: her father, driven mad by grief, had killed her mother and then taken his own life.
But now—now someone claimed to have seen the truth?
Something inside her cracked open. A sliver of hope. Of fury. Of need.
"I need to go," she said, already climbing out of bed, the sheet falling forgotten to the floor. "We need to go. Now."
"I'm with you," Leah said without hesitation. "Let's go get you some answers."
The car ride to the station was a blur.
Amara sat motionless in the passenger seat, her eyes fixed on the passing scenery, but she wasn't really seeing any of it. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. Her mind bounced between the memory of Rafael's icy withdrawal and the words Leah had just spoken.
They reopened the case.
Her throat felt tight, dry. Her parents' deaths had been a sealed chapter—a gaping wound she was forced to stitch shut with lies she never believed. They had told her her father snapped. That he killed her mother in a fit of madness and took his own life afterward.
But now… now there was another version.
A man who claimed to know the truth. A witness. After all these years, someone had finally come forward.
Beside her, Leah drove like a woman on a mission, her fingers clenched around the steering wheel, her jaw tight. Every so often, she glanced at Amara, her eyes filled with protectiveness and worry, but she didn't say a word.
Because what could you say when someone's entire past was just rewritten?
The car pulled into the police precinct lot with a screech. Amara got out wordlessly and followed Leah toward the building, her legs trembling slightly beneath her.
The front desk officer directed them upstairs to a private room. Amara could barely breathe as she entered.
The room was sterile. Gray walls. Steel chairs. A small table in the center. Two detectives sat across from each other—one older man with heavy eyes, and the other a younger woman with a sharp but empathetic expression.
"Miss Amara," the older detective greeted her, standing. "I'm Detective Miller. This is my partner, Detective Jones. Thank you for coming on such short notice."
Amara nodded and slowly sank into the seat across from them. Leah sat beside her, her hand brushing Amara's under the table in quiet reassurance.
"We won't waste your time," Detective Jones said. "A few days ago, a man named Thomas Bell came forward with a statement regarding your parents' deaths. He claims he witnessed events that contradict the original investigation."
Amara's lips parted, but her voice was barely audible. "What kind of statement?"
Detective Miller opened a thin file and pulled out several pages. "He says he was your neighbor at the time, living a few houses down. He wasn't interviewed during the original case because he'd just returned from a long trip and hadn't been registered at that address yet. At least, that's what he says."
Amara leaned forward, her heart pounding. "What did he see?"
There was a pause. Then, Detective Miller's voice dropped, slow and deliberate. "According to Mr. Bell, your mother didn't simply take her own life. He claims she was assaulted… and that your father wasn't the one who did it."
The air left Amara's lungs.
"What?"
"He said he witnessed a man—an unknown male, tall, well-dressed, possibly wealthy—leaving your house late that night. He described the man's movements as rushed, anxious. Panicked. He heard your mother screaming earlier. He assumed it was a domestic argument... until the next day when the news broke."
Amara's hands trembled in her lap.
"All these years..." she whispered. "They told me my father—" Her voice cracked. "They told me he did it."
"We understand how devastating this is," Detective Jones said gently. "But if Mr. Bell's statement is true, this case is far more sinister than anyone thought."
"Why didn't he say anything back then?" Leah demanded, her voice sharp with disbelief.
"He says he was threatened," Miller replied. "He claims that shortly after the police started investigating, someone came to his door. A man in a suit. He warned Bell to stay quiet. Said he'd 'end up like the girl's parents' if he talked."
"And now?" Amara asked, her voice trembling.
"He's terminally ill. Stage four lung cancer. He has nothing left to lose. He says he wants to die with a clear conscience."
The words hit Amara like a freight train.
For so long, she had tried to live with the version of truth they fed her. That her father was the monster. That her mother was a victim of his madness. But what if it wasn't madness? What if it was guilt? Grief? Helplessness?
"What was in his full statement?" Amara asked, struggling to keep her composure.
"We can share the details after you meet him, if you're willing. He asked to speak to you in person. He's currently hospitalized—condition worsening—but he insisted on seeing you. He said he wanted to apologize."
Amara blinked, tears welling again. "He remembers my mother?"
"Yes," Detective Jones replied softly. "He remembers everything."
Leah reached over and took Amara's hand, squeezing it tightly.
"We'll take you there," Miller added. "If you're ready."
Amara nodded.
"I've been ready for this my whole life."
The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and stale air. The lighting was dim, the only source of brightness coming from the monitors beeping gently beside the bed. Machines hummed softly, their rhythmic sounds filling the otherwise suffocating silence.
Amara stood just inside the doorway, frozen.
There he was. Thomas Bell.
The man who had lived with the truth buried deep in his chest for over a decade.
He was frail, his body sunken into the thin mattress like it was swallowing him whole. A nasal cannula delivered oxygen to his lungs, and his arms were dotted with IV lines. But despite the slow decay of his body, his eyes were alert—clear, even. And when he looked at Amara, there was something in them that made her heart stutter.
Recognition. Regret. And a deep, aching sorrow.
"You came," he rasped, voice barely above a whisper.
Amara nodded numbly, stepping forward. Leah followed, her presence solid and grounding beside her.
"I didn't know…" Thomas began, his voice cracking. "Not really. Not until it was too late. And even then, I didn't have the courage to speak. I'm sorry."
Amara swallowed the lump in her throat. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. "Just tell me what you saw," she whispered. "Please. I need to know."
Thomas nodded, slowly. He coughed, wheezing into a tissue, and then took a deep breath as if preparing himself to walk back into a nightmare.
"It was late," he said. "I couldn't sleep that night. I used to walk my dog in your neighborhood after dark. Less traffic, quiet... peaceful." He chuckled bitterly. "Peaceful. What a joke."
Amara's heart pounded as he continued.
"I saw a car. Black, expensive-looking. Parked a few houses down from yours. Thought it was odd. No one around there drove something that sleek. I didn't think much of it... until I saw him."
"Him?" Amara echoed.
Thomas's face twisted with disgust. "A man. Tall, broad shoulders. Suit jacket, silk shirt... real polished type. But there was something... off. His walk was rushed, frantic. Like he didn't want to be seen. I stepped behind a tree when he passed me. I didn't want to get involved."
Thomas stared down at his trembling hands.
"But then I heard it," he said, voice faltering. "Screaming. Your mother's voice. A sound I'll never forget. Raw. Broken. Terrified."
Amara covered her mouth, her whole body trembling.
"She begged him to stop. Cried for help. I should've run in. I should've done something." His eyes welled up with tears. "But I froze. I was a coward."
Amara felt like she was breaking apart.
Thomas looked at her. "Your father came home minutes later. I watched from the end of the street. He ran inside. I heard him yelling, sobbing... and then nothing. Silence."
He let out a shaky breath.
"The next day, I read the news. They said it was a double suicide. That your father lost control and killed her. But I knew. I knew it didn't happen that way. I saw that man leave. I saw your mother scream. But I didn't speak. Because that same man showed up at my door two nights later."
Leah tensed beside Amara. "He came to you?"
Thomas nodded.
"I don't know how he knew I saw. But he did. He warned me—cold as ice—that if I told anyone, I'd be next. That I'd end up just like your parents. He even knew my dog's name. My mother's address. He made sure I understood what silence meant."
Amara's legs gave way, and she sank into the chair beside the bed.
She stared at the old man, her throat burning with anguish. "Why now?" she whispered. "Why are you telling me now?"
"Because I'm dying," he said simply. "And I've carried this with me for too long. You deserve the truth. Your parents deserve justice. I should have spoken up years ago. I'm so sorry, child. I failed you."
Tears spilled down Amara's cheeks as her entire world tilted under her.
For years, she'd believed her father was a murderer.
She remembered his smile. The way he carried her on his shoulders. The warmth in his eyes when he spoke to her mother. That man… he could never have done what they claimed.
"I need to know who it was," she said, her voice sharp with desperation. "That man. Did you recognize him? Anything? A face, a name—anything."
Thomas shook his head slowly. "I didn't see his face clearly. But there's one thing I remember. A ring. Gold. Thick band. Engraved with some kind of crest—like a family symbol. I'd never seen anything like it before."
Amara's heart thudded. A ring. A family crest.
Power.
Legacy.
Wealth.
This wasn't just a man acting alone. This was someone with reach. Someone who could manipulate investigations, silence witnesses, and rewrite tragedies into convenient lies.
"You've given us more than you know," Leah said, her voice steady, though her face was pale.
Amara reached for Thomas's hand, frail and cold. She squeezed it tightly. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for finally telling the truth."
Tears ran down the man's cheeks. "I hope you find him," he said. "And I hope you burn his world to the ground."