Chapter 99
Magnus POV
I reluctantly released Evelyn from our embrace, wiping the tears from my face with the back of my hand. For a moment, we simply looked at each other, both overwhelmed by the magnitude of what we'd just discovered. Father and daughter. After all these years.
"He knew," I whispered, rage burning through my grief. "That bastard knew you were mine."
That was why Francis had treated her so cruelly—not because she was his disappointment, but because she was my flesh and blood. Every bruise, every scar, every silent tear she'd shed had been his revenge against me, against Amelia. Against the love we had shared that he could never destroy.
I studied Evelyn's face, seeing myself in her features for the first time. How had I missed it? The shape of her eyes, the set of her jaw—they were mine.
"What else did she leave you?" I asked, nodding toward the wooden box between us.
Evelyn then opened the box wider to reveal folders and documents meticulously organized. Amelia had always been thorough, even in her final act of protection.
I reached for the first folder, labeled simply "Francis." Inside were newspaper clippings, photographs, and handwritten notes spanning decades. The picture they painted made my blood run cold.
Francis Grayson wasn't just a man who had stolen my love and my child. He was a professional con artist who had made a career of preying on the vulnerable. Photographs showed him with different names, different appearances, alongside a woman I recognized as Victoria.
"They worked together," I murmured, spreading the papers across the table. "Targeting lonely people, grieving widows, anyone with money and no one to protect them."
Evelyn leaned forward, her eyes widening as she examined a list of names and dates. Each entry represented a victim, a life destroyed by Francis and Victoria's schemes. And at the bottom, circled in red: "Amelia Moore."
The second folder contained financial records—offshore accounts, property deeds, transactions that traced how Francis had systematically drained Amelia's inheritance after her father's death. Beside it lay a third folder labeled "Accomplices."
"Look at this," I said, opening it to reveal a list of names—lawyers, judges, police officers, all who had helped Francis over the years. "No wonder he always escaped justice. He had people in his pocket everywhere."
But it was the fourth folder that made my hands shake with murderous rage. "Thomas Moore," it read—Amelia's father's name. Inside were hospital records, staff schedules, and a detailed account of how Francis had gained access to Thomas's room the night he died.
"He killed your grandfather," I said, my voice hardening. "Orchestrated it to look like natural causes, then swooped in to 'comfort' Amelia and take control of everything."
Evelyn's face paled as she absorbed this information. Her hands moved in the graceful patterns of sign language: [He took everything from us.]
"Yes," I agreed, my throat tight. "But not anymore."
The final folder was simply labeled "DNA." Inside were two reports—one comparing Evelyn's DNA to Francis's, showing no relation, and another comparing hers to mine, confirming with 99.9% certainty that I was her father.
Scientific proof of what my heart had recognized the moment I read Amelia's letter. This was my daughter. Mine.
I gathered the documents carefully, reorganizing them into the box. Evidence. Proof. The means to finally bring Francis to justice—not just for what he'd done to me, but for all his victims.
My fingers itched to wrap around his throat, to watch the life drain from his eyes as he realized he had lost everything. But that would be too quick, too merciful. And it would rob Evelyn of the justice she deserved.
"We're going to do this right," I told her, closing the box. "We'll use these to destroy him legally. He'll spend the rest of his life in prison, knowing he failed."
Evelyn nodded, determination replacing the shock in her eyes. She signed something I didn't fully catch, but her meaning was clear enough—she wanted to be there when we confronted him.
"You shouldn't have to face him," I said, protective instincts I never knew I possessed surging to the surface.
[I need to see it,] she signed more deliberately. [I need to see him answer for what he did.]
I understood. After a lifetime of suffering his cruelty, she deserved to witness his downfall. But I wouldn't let him hurt her again, not even with words.
"You can watch from the observation room," I compromised. "He won't see you, but you'll see everything."
With the box tucked securely under my arm, I led Evelyn through the station toward the interrogation rooms. Detective Bob nodded grimly when I explained what we had found, immediately agreeing to my request.
"We've got him in room three," he said. "Your lawyer friend—Connor—is in there with him now."
As we approached, I could hear Francis's voice through the door, arrogant even in custody. "This is ridiculous. You have no right to keep me here. I demand to be released immediately."
I motioned for Evelyn to wait with a female officer who would escort her to the observation room. "Are you sure you want to see this?" I asked one final time.
She nodded, her jaw set in a determination that mirrored my own. In that moment, I saw myself in her so clearly it stole my breath.
[Make him pay,] she signed, and then disappeared down the hallway with the officer.
I took a deep breath, steadying myself. Inside that room sat the man who had stolen my love, my child, decades of my life. Who had abused my daughter and tried to erase her very identity.
Clutching Amelia's evidence, I pushed open the door.
Francis sat at the metal table, his posture radiating indignation despite his handcuffs. Connor stood against the wall, arms crossed, while Detective Bob leaned forward, clearly frustrated by Francis's stonewalling.
"You can't hold me here," Francis was saying as I entered. "This is illegal detention, and my lawyer will have a field day with it."
"Your lawyer is currently facing charges of his own," Detective Bob replied, barely containing his anger. "And we can hold you for forty-eight hours without charging you."
"And then what?" Francis sneered. "You have nothing on me. Nothing that will stick."
Connor stepped forward. "You might think you're untouchable, Francis, but we know the truth."
Francis laughed, a cold sound devoid of humor. "The truth? What truth? I am Francis Moore, and I am untouchable..."
I couldn't contain myself any longer. I strode into the room, slamming the folder onto the table in front of him.
"Marlon Sawyer, attorney," I read from the list in the accomplices folder. "John Cladstone, judge. Frederick Sinclair, police officer. Leonard Jameson, hospital administrator. Michael Pierce, real estate agent."
With each name, the color drained from Francis's face. He recognized them—his network of corruption, the people who had helped him commit his crimes and escape justice.
Detective Bob straightened, recognition dawning in his eyes. "Those names... some of those are people who've been arrested in the corruption sweep last month."
"Yes," I confirmed, never taking my eyes off Francis. "And I believe the detective in charge of those cases would be very interested in comparing notes with you."
Francis's hands were shaking now, the handcuffs rattling slightly against the table. His mask of confidence had cracked, revealing the coward beneath.
"You targeted a young girl who had just lost her mother," I continued, my voice steady despite the rage burning inside me. "You pretended to be her father so you could steal her inheritance, her identity, even her name."
I slid the DNA test across the table. "But she was never yours, Francis. She was mine."
For a moment, the room was utterly silent. Then Francis lunged forward as far as his restraints would allow, spittle flying from his lips.
"That stupid girl is my daughter!" he snarled.
My fists clenched at my sides, every muscle tensed to strike him. "Don't you dare speak about her that way again," I warned, my voice deadly quiet. "Evelyn is my daughter. Amelia made sure to prove it before she died."
I turned to Detective Bob. "I think we should do another DNA test right now. To confirm."
Bob nodded. "Excellent idea."
"No," Francis said, suddenly panicked. "I refuse. You can't make me take a test."
"Actually, we can," Connor interjected smoothly. "We have a warrant for your DNA in connection with evidence found at multiple crime scenes."
I reached forward and yanked several hairs from Francis's head, ignoring his howl of protest. "Here's your sample," I said, handing the hairs to Bob. "Test it against Evelyn's, and against mine. Let's settle this once and for all."
Francis glared at me, hatred burning in his eyes. "You think this changes anything? You've lost twenty-eight years. You can never get them back."
His words cut deep, but I refused to let him see how they wounded me. "No, I can't," I agreed. "But I can make sure you lose the rest of your life. And I will."