She had done this. She had poisoned her own son—and pinned it on me.
I bit down hard and swallowed the sob trying to tear free. I kept walking, spine stiff, refusing to shatter where she could see.
I bought clean clothes from a nearby shop, hands shaking as I folded them into a bag. Then I turned back toward Ethan.
At the elevator, I pressed the button repeatedly, willing the doors to open. When they slid apart, relief flooded me—
Until someone stepped forward.
Marina.
She leaned against the doorway, blocking my path, her perfume sweet and poisonous.
“How’s little Ethan?” she asked lightly. “Dead yet?” She tilted her head. “I told those men to crush his fingers. That way my son could steal the piano spotlight. And when they were done, I ordered them to dump his body on the street like trash.”
“How dare you!”
The words tore themselves from my throat before I even realized, my palm connecting sharply with Marina’s painted cheek.
She screamed immediately, stumbling backward like I had shattered her delicate bones, clutching her face as though it were made of porcelain, her wails high and practiced. Every motion, every breath, every tremble was perfect, rehearsed to perfection.