Chapter 8 - THE DEAD WOMAN'S SIGNATURE
The death certificate wasn't official.
Not yet.
But someone had prepared it.
The physician name at the bottom belonged to Dr. Preston Hall.
The psychiatrist Audrey had never met.
Police picked him up that evening.
He lasted forty-two minutes in questioning.
Then he asked for a deal.
Rich men often believe loyalty is permanent.
It isn't.
Especially when prison enters the conversation.
Dr. Hall admitted he had signed evaluations without examining Audrey.
Julian paid him.
Arthur arranged payments through a consulting company.
Miriam provided descriptions of Audrey's “behavior.”
Every document was designed to create one story.
Audrey was mentally ill.
Audrey was dangerous.
Audrey couldn't control her finances.
Audrey couldn't be trusted.
And eventually, Audrey killed herself.
Except she hadn't.
She was sitting beside me eating hospital pudding and complaining that it tasted like wallpaper paste.
I laughed.
“What?”
She looked offended.
“You're laughing at a trauma survivor.”
“No.”
I picked up my coffee.
“I'm laughing because you haven't eaten properly in months and you're already insulting hospital food.”
“It deserves it.”
For five seconds, she was my daughter again.
Not a victim.
Not evidence.
Not a medical chart.
Audrey.
Then Rachel walked in.
Her expression erased the moment.
“Julian made bail.”
The spoon stopped halfway to Audrey's mouth.
“What?”
“His attorneys challenged several charges.”
“He held me in a basement.”
“I know.”
“He starved me.”
“I know.”
“He tried to kill me.”
“I know.”
“So why is he outside?”
“Because the justice system moves slower than monsters.”
Audrey threw the spoon onto the tray.
“Then your system is broken.”
Rachel didn't argue.
“His passport is surrendered.”
Audrey laughed bitterly.
“He has three passports.”
Rachel froze.
“What?”
“British.”
Audrey counted with her fingers.
“Saint Kitts.”
Then another.
“Malta, I think.”
Rachel took out her phone.
“How do you know?”
“I packed them.”
The room moved quickly after that.
Calls.
Agents.
Airport notifications.
Border alerts.
But Julian didn't run.
He did something worse.
At 8:10 p.m., a television station released an interview with him.
He stood outside his attorney's office wearing a navy suit.
No bat.
No arrogance.
Just a wounded husband.
“My wife is ill.”
He looked straight into the camera.
“I love Audrey.”
My hand tightened around the remote.
He continued.
“Her father has exploited her vulnerability because he never accepted our marriage.”
Audrey stared at the screen.
Julian's voice softened.
“I only want my wife to get the help she needs.”
Then the reporter asked about the basement.
Julian sighed.
“It was a wellness room.”
I almost threw the television through the wall.
Audrey whispered.
“He's doing it again.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“He's making me crazy.”
“No.”
“He's telling the world.”
“And this time you're going to answer.”
She shook her head.
“I can't.”
“Yes, you can.”
“What if they believe him?”
I leaned closer.
“Then we show them the truth.”
Audrey looked at the camera crew waiting outside the hospital.
Then at me.
For the first time since her rescue, something harder than fear appeared in her eyes.
Anger.
“Okay.”
That night, Audrey Thorne sat in front of a camera.
No makeup.
No designer clothes.
Hospital bracelet still on her wrist.
She told the world what Julian had done.
She spoke for eleven minutes.
The clip went viral before midnight.
But at 12:14 a.m., Marcus called me.
“Elias.”
“What?”
“We've got a bigger problem.”
I stood.
May you like
“What happened?”
“Julian disappeared.”
