“Detective,” I rasped, my voice gaining a fraction of strength. “When he comes back… tell him the hypoxia from the smoke caused severe memory loss.”

Ortiz tilted her head, silently studying my face. She was evaluating whether I was a victim or a partner.

“And tell him,” I continued, forcing myself to sit up a fraction of an inch despite the screaming agony in my ribs, “that I believe every single word he says. I need him to feel completely safe.”

A slow, grim smile touched the corners of Ortiz’s mouth.

For the first time since waking into this nightmare of bandages and burns, I felt no helplessness. The crushing weight of victimization evaporated.

In its place was only terrifying, absolute purpose.

Chapter 3: Cashmere and Contradictions

Three days later, my father returned to the ward. He played the grieving widower flawlessly, carrying a massive arrangement of white lilies—my mother’s favorite, a detail he’d likely had his assistant look up.