Page 52 of Ruin
The newspaper article is dated June 3rd, with a quote that makes my blood freeze: "Sources within law enforcement say the younger Wolfe eliminated several potential threats to the organization's operations before assuming control, including city officials who refused to cooperate with the family's business interests."
No. No, no, no.
With trembling hands, I spread my father's files across my coffee table.
His handwriting, neat and precise, documenting every piece of evidence he'd gathered against the Wolfe criminal organization.
Bank records, witness statements, surveillance photos, phone records.
One photo makes me gasp aloud.
It's grainy, taken from a distance with a long lens, but it shows a figure in a black leather mask entering what I recognize as our old house's back door.
The height is right. The build is right. The timestamp shows March 15th, 11:49 PM.
Four minutes after the estimated time of death.
The night my parents died.
I stare at that photo until the lines blur.
My face goes numb first, then cold, like all the blood is draining out of me at once.
My hand flies to my mouth—a reflex, something involuntary and animalistic, the body’s attempt to hold a sound that hasn’t yet formed.
The wine glass slips from my hand.
I don’t feel it leave my fingers. I only hear it as it shatters on the hardwood floor.
The sound echoes in my quiet apartment like a gunshot, like the gunshots that killed my parents.
My phone buzzes with a text from Cassius:
Missing you already, little wolf. Sweet dreams.
Little wolf. His pet name for me. Because his last name is Wolfe.
Because he killed the people who loved me most and made me fall in love with him for it.
My stomach heaves violently.
I barely make it to the bathroom before I'm sick, retching until there's nothing left but bile and the taste of absolute betrayal.
When I finally stop shaking, I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
The diamond collar glints at my throat, beautiful and damning.
I've worn it for over a year, never taking it off once, a symbol of my devotion to my parents' murderer.
The woman staring back at me looks hollow-eyed, haunted.
She looks exactly like she did eight years ago, kneeling in her parents' blood, begging them not to leave her in the dark.
I close my eyes and see him as he was tonight—tender, loving, whispering that I'm everything to him.
It can't be true. There has to be another explanation.
But deep down, in the part of me that's always known something was off about this perfect love story, I know it is.
