The doors to the 17th Precinct slid open, and Keenan strode in, his presence sucking the air out of the bustling room. His expensive shoes made sharp, angry sounds on the linoleum floor.

He slapped a photo of Aracely on the front desk. "I need to know where this woman is. Now."

A weary-looking detective in a rumpled suit approached him. "I'm Detective Fletcher. Come with me, Mr. Ross."

Fletcher led him not to an office, but to an interrogation room with a one-way mirror. He pointed inside.

A man sat at the metal table, his head in his hands. He looked exhausted and distraught. Keenan didn't recognize him.

"That man, Felix Riddle, came in two hours ago," Fletcher said, his voice flat. "Filed a missing person's report for Aracely Walter. Says he's a close friend, believes her life is in danger, and that you're the cause of it."

Close friend.

The words detonated in Keenan's brain. A red haze of fury descended. He kicked the door open, stormed in, and grabbed the man by the collar, hauling him out of his chair.

"Keenan, no!" Aracely's soul cried out, recognizing him instantly. Felix. The man from the graduation party. The source of all the poison.

Keenan's fist connected with Felix's jaw. A sickening crack echoed in the small room.

Officers swarmed in, pulling them apart. Felix staggered back, blood trickling from his lip, his eyes wide with shock.

"Who the hell are you?" Keenan roared, struggling against the officers holding him back. "She's my wife!"

"Some husband you are!" Felix spat back, wiping blood from his mouth. "She was dying, you bastard! Did you even know she was sick?"

The words were a direct hit. Keenan flinched. "She was acting! Lying, just like she always did, with men like you!"

Fletcher tossed a clear plastic evidence bag onto the table. It clattered against the metal. Inside was a woman's designer high heel and a delicate wristwatch.

Keenan's breath hitched. The watch. It was the one he'd given Aracely on their first anniversary.

"Found on the bank of the East River an hour ago," Fletcher said grimly. "No body. But it looks like she jumped."

Aracely stared at the shoe. It was hers. The one she'd worn to the hospital. How did it get to the river? Cheyenne. It had to be Cheyenne. She had thrown them there, creating a false trail.

Keenan reached for the bag, his fingers trembling as they touched the cold plastic. He saw a dark, brownish stain on the watchband. Dried blood.

His head snapped up, his eyes locking on Felix. "What did you do to her?"

"I was trying to find her!" Felix yelled, his voice cracking with grief. "I was trying to save her from you!"

"According to traffic cams, Mr. Ross," Fletcher interrupted, "a woman matching your wife's description was seen walking alone toward the river late last night."

A woman with the same build. The same long, dark hair. Cheyenne.

Keenan spun around, his face a mask of desperation. "I want to see that footage. All of it."

"There are blind spots," Fletcher said with a sigh. "We only got a shot of her back."

Keenan sagged against the wall, the feeling of control, the one thing he always had, completely gone.

Felix stepped closer, his voice dropping to a pained whisper. "She had a brain tumor, Keenan. A real one. Why wouldn't you believe her?"

Keenan squeezed his eyes shut. The image of Aracely in his study, her face pale, her hand shaking as she held out the diagnosis, flashed in his mind.

He opened his eyes, a new, terrifying resolve hardening his features. He looked at Fletcher.

"I'm going to that clinic. Right now."

The hospital corridor was quiet, smelling of antiseptic and floor wax. Keenan, flanked by Detective Fletcher and a bruised Felix, marched toward the administrative offices. Their footsteps echoed, loud and intrusive.

Fletcher flashed his badge at the head nurse. "We need to see all medical records for Aracely Walter. And any surgical logs from today."

The nurse's face tightened. "Due to HIPAA regulations, I can't—"

"I'm her emergency contact!" Felix burst out, slamming his hand on the counter. "She was scheduled for a craniotomy today! You have to tell us what happened!"

Craniotomy. The word was a physical blow. Keenan shoved Felix aside, his face contorted with a desperate, furious denial.

"Shut up! She had migraines! She wouldn't be having that kind of surgery!" he roared, his voice cracking.

Aracely's soul watched him, a hollow ache spreading through her. He was still trying to believe the lie. Because believing the truth—that he had abandoned her when she was dying—was too much to bear.

Fletcher watched Keenan's outburst with a cool, appraising eye.

Just then, a figure in a white coat appeared at the end of the hall. Cheyenne. She walked toward them, her expression a perfect blend of concern and authority.

She went straight to Keenan's side, taking his arm in a proprietary way. "Keenan, darling, what's going on?"

Felix stared at her. "You're... Dr. Walter. Her sister."

Cheyenne gave him a brief, dismissive nod before turning her full attention to the detective. "I'm Aracely's sister and her primary physician. How can I help you, Detective?"

"We need her medical file," Fletcher said, his tone brooking no argument.

Cheyenne let out a long, weary sigh, as if dealing with a tiresome inconvenience. "This whole thing is just a terrible misunderstanding."

Keenan's eyes bored into her, a silent, desperate warning. Don't you dare.

She squeezed his hand reassuringly. "Don't worry. I'll clear this up."

"Misunderstanding?" Felix exploded. "You told me the surgery was life-or-death!"

Cheyenne's eyes flashed with annoyance before she smoothed her features back into a mask of sorrowful patience. "Mr. Riddle, I said the situation was serious. My sister has been... unwell. She has a history of resisting treatment."

Lies. All of it, a seamless river of lies. Aracely's soul thrashed in silent rage.

"Enough," Fletcher said, his patience wearing thin. "I want to see the raw data in the EMR system. Now."

Cheyenne nodded graciously. "Of course. My office is just this way. I'll pull up her file on my terminal." She led them down the hall, her pace calm and measured, a portrait of professional competence.

Inside her pristine office, she sat at her desk and logged into the hospital's system. The loading icon spun on the screen for a moment that felt like an eternity.

Keenan stared at it, his jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists. He was praying he was right. Praying she was a liar.

Felix was praying for the opposite. Praying for proof that would vindicate her.

The system loaded. Cheyenne's mouse hovered, then clicked. Aracely Walter.

The patient file opened. The official diagnosis appeared on the screen.

Felix's face crumpled in disbelief.

Keenan stared, and a wild, triumphant, and deeply pained look spread across his face.

Aracely floated over them, looked at the screen, and felt the last vestiges of her human heart turn to dust.

The black Lincoln sedan crunched over the gravel driveway of the Walter family estate on Long Island. Keenan got out first, then held the door for Cheyenne, a perfect imitation of a gentleman. They walked toward the grand entrance, hand in hand.

Aracely's soul lingered by the car, the sight of them together a nauseating parody.

Through the large bay window, she could hear her mother's shrill voice.

"I can't believe it! Aracely, that ungrateful child, faking an illness and running off! She's humiliated this family! Humiliated the Rosses!"

The words were like tiny needles in Aracely's consciousness. Not a shred of concern. Only anger at the social inconvenience.

Keenan pushed the door open.

Brenda Walter's face instantly transformed, her features rearranging into a mask of fawning sympathy. "Keenan, my dear boy! I am so, so sorry about Aracely, she—"

"It doesn't matter," Keenan cut her off. "She's in the past." He squeezed Cheyenne's hand, a deliberate, public gesture.

Brenda's eyes darted between their joined hands, and a greedy, calculating light sparked in her eyes.

"I've decided to marry Cheyenne," Keenan announced, his voice echoing in the marble-floored hall. "Next weekend."

Brenda's jaw dropped. The shock was quickly replaced by unadulterated joy. The Ross fortune, the Ross name—it would all stay connected to the Walter family.

"Oh, Keenan!" she gushed, rushing forward to hug Cheyenne, who feigned a bashful surprise.

I'm dead, Mother, Aracely's soul shrieked at the woman who had given her life. Your other daughter murdered me, and you're celebrating.

But her voice was only silence.

"The wedding will be at St. Patrick's Cathedral," Keenan continued, taking a seat on the sofa as if he owned the place. "I want every newspaper in New York to cover it."

"Of course, of course! Whatever you want!" Brenda chirped, practically vibrating with excitement.

Keenan slid a document across the coffee table. A prenuptial agreement. "Sign it."

Brenda didn't even glance at the pages. She snatched a pen and signed her name with a flourish, a mother eagerly selling off her second daughter.