Chapter 119
Chapter 119
Eloise
The hard drive weighed almost nothing in my hand, yet my arm trembled as though I carried an anvil. I’d stared at the footage three times already, each time hoping I had misinterpreted shadows or movements. But no—Jadeline’s face remained there, sharp in the grainy security recording, her body hunched over the hood of my mother’s car, her fingers slipping inside where the brake line ran. Deliberate. Calculated. Murder precisely planned..
That night I drove home knowing Max needs me more than anything now.
The next morning, the city was washed in the morning light, the streets outside damp from last night’s drizzle. I dressed simply, dark jeans, a white blouse, no jewelry. Nothing that suggested ceremony or spectacle. Just purpose. As I buttoned the last button, my gaze flicked toward the mirror. My reflection’s eyes looked sunken, bruised with sleepless hours, yet fire glowed in the pupils.
I’d carried evidence against Jennifer before, fought tooth and nail in court while men and women weighed lies and half-truths. But this was different. This was about my mom and I wont let it slide ever!
.
The police station hummed with the morning rush, phones ringing, footsteps echoing, a printer spitting papers with mechanical groans. I gripped the strap of my bag tighter as I stepped inside. The smell of burnt coffee and floor cleaner mingled in the air. A young officer glanced up from behind the reception desk.
“Good morning. Can I help you?” His voice carried the politeness of routine.
“Yes,” I said, pulling the hard drive free. The cool plastic warmed quickly in my palm. “I have evidence to submit. It concerns a car accident… from years ago.”
His brows knitted, curiosity stirring, but he didn’t press. He motioned for me to wait, then disappeared through a door. Moments later, a taller officer with streaks of gray in his hair approached, adjusting his belt as he walked.
“Ms. Sinclair?” His voice was firmer, less routine, like he’d heard my name before.
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Owen. You said you have evidence?”
I nodded, my throat thick. “This.” I extended the drive. “It’s footage. From the night my mother’s brakes failed. The accident wasn’t an accident.”
The detective took it with careful fingers, as though he sensed the weight I carried. His eyes searched mine. “You’re saying foul play?”
“Not saying.” My voice cracked but steadied. “Proving.”
.
The process blurred: signing statements, watching technicians transfer data, answering initial questions. Each time the footage replayed on the screen, each time Jadeline leaned over the car with her dark coat hiding her intent, my stomach knotted until I felt I’d collapse. But I stayed. I forced myself to watch. I owed my mother that.
When the officers excused me, promising follow-up, I stepped into the crisp daylight outside. The city already jammed with traffic and chatter, but the sound dulled in my ears. My phone buzzed in my hand. A message from Max: Mom.Where are you?
I didn’t answer. Not yet. There was someone else who needed to know before the rest of the world did.
.
Father’s study smelled of tobacco and old wood polish. The heavy curtains blocked the noon sun, leaving the room dim, shadows falling over the shelves lined with books he no longer read. He sat behind the desk, his posture stiff, his shirt immaculate despite the hour. His eyes flicked up when I entered. Since his condition was just a mild back pain, he was discharged the next day after some treatments.
“Eloise.” His tone carried surprise, guarded. “You look… resolute.”
I walked forward, stopping on the opposite side of his desk. “I gave the police the footage.”
His face drained of color. For once, the mask cracked. His pen slipped from his fingers and rolled across the leather blotter.
“Footage,” he repeated slowly.
“Yes.” I replied, my nails dug into my palms, half expecting him to cover up for her like he does.
The silence between us stretched taut, a violin string ready to snap. His jaw tightened, his eyes flicking toward the closed door behind me, then back.
“I knew,” he whispered.
My breath punched out of me. “You what?” I said as if I didn't already know, but his acceptance was something I didn't know would hurt the way it did.
He pushed back from his chair, standing. The light caught silver strands in his hair, outlining the wear in his face. “Not with certainty. Not proof. Only suspicion. I saw the way Jadeline hovered that night, the way she avoided questions afterward. But suspicion doesn’t hold in court, Eloise. You know that better than anyone.”
My vision blurred. Rage clawed up my throat, hot and choking. “You sat through Jennifer’s trial, silent, while I tore myself apart fighting her lies. You let me believe you were absent because you were ashamed, because you couldn’t face it. But the truth is you were hiding this?”
“I was protecting your mother’s memory,” he shot back, his voice rising. “If the world knew her own sister tried to kill her, they’d drag her name through the mud. I waited. I searched. I told myself if proof came, then—”
“Then what?” I cut him off, slamming my hand against the desk. “Then you’d swoop in as the noble widower with the truth? You’d control the narrative like always?”
His eyes narrowed, wounded pride flashing. “You don’t understand the weight of reputation in this family. Every misstep costs.”
“I don’t care.” My voice broke, raw. “She’s dead. And you knew. That’s final. That’s what I’ll remember. Moreover history has been repeating itself ever since, hasn't it?”
His shoulders sagged, the fight draining from his expression, leaving only a man older than I’d ever seen him. He sank back into his chair. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps silence was cowardice.”
I turned, the air suffocating, and left before my rage consumed me entirely.
It was already evening when the call came. I was in the sitting room, the fire unlit, my knees pulled to my chest on the sofa. The officer’s voice crackled through the line.
“Ms. Sinclair, we’ve taken Jadeline into custody. She was confronted with the footage and offered no denial. She’s being processed now.”
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. My gaze fell to the framed photograph on the mantel, my mother in her garden, sunlight catching her hair. My chest ached as if the years between us had collapsed.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
When the call ended, I lowered the phone slowly. My hand shook so badly I set it on the table. Somewhere upstairs, footsteps moved, Max checking on me again, probably. But I stayed curled on the couch, staring at the fireless grate.