Chapter 52
Aria's POV
I'd been back at the office for almost two hours since my impromptu lunch with Devon and Caroline, trying to compartmentalize the complicated emotions their interaction had stirred in me.
"Do you need anything else before I leave?" Sofia appeared at my door, her bag already slung over her shoulder. Her dark eyes studied me with concern. "I can stay if you want to go over the Kane presentation revisions."
I shook my head, forcing a smile. "No, go home. Your mom needs you more than I do right now. I'm just going to finalize some concepts for Devon's blockchain campaign."
"You sure?" She lingered in the doorway. "You've been different since you got back from lunch. Everything okay?"
The USB drive felt like it was burning a hole in my purse. I hadn't told Sofia about my mysterious contact or the potential evidence against Victoria. Part of me wanted to share the burden, but another part—the protective part—wanted to shield her from the ugliness of it all.
"I'm fine," I assured her. "Just preoccupied with the Kane account. We need to nail this presentation redo, especially after Devon so publicly rejected our first attempt."
Sofia nodded, though I could tell she wasn't entirely convinced. "Don't stay too late. Even marketing geniuses need sleep."
After she left, I turned my attention back to my laptop, determined to focus on the Kane Technology proposal. Despite the personal complications, our one-month contract was rapidly approaching its end, and I needed this campaign to be spectacular. Devon's insights about blockchain psychology had actually been incredibly helpful, providing a new angle I hadn't considered before.
Hours passed as I worked, the office growing quieter around me. By nine o'clock, I was the only one left, the silence broken only by the occasional ping of late emails and the distant hum of the building's air conditioning. My eyes burned from staring at the screen, but I felt satisfied with the progress I'd made. The new approach was innovative and exactly what Devon had asked for—a campaign that focused on trust and relationship transformation rather than technical specifications.
I stretched, my muscles protesting after sitting for so long. The thought of going home to my empty apartment suddenly felt exhausting. The couch in our office lounge was comfortable enough—I'd crashed there before on deadline nights. Decision made, I sent a quick text to my building's security guard to let him know I wouldn't be home, then gathered my things and headed to the lounge.
The small room had a plush sectional, a mini fridge, and a decent shower in the attached bathroom—all the essentials for an impromptu overnight stay. I kicked off my heels and settled onto the couch, finally allowing myself to open my purse and look at the USB drive that had been occupying my thoughts all afternoon.
It was a small, nondescript black drive—the kind you could buy at any electronics store. Nothing about it suggested it contained evidence of murder, yet my fingers trembled slightly as I plugged it into my laptop.
A single folder appeared on my screen, password protected. I hesitated only briefly before typing in my mother's maiden name followed by her birth year: Cooper1972.
The folder opened to reveal several neatly labeled subfolders. I clicked on the first one, labeled "Medical Records." A series of scanned documents appeared—hospital charts, lab reports, and physician notes, all bearing my mother's name: Elizabeth Harper.
I scrolled through them slowly, my heart pounding. The earliest records showed routine visits and normal test results. But as the dates progressed closer to her death, alarming patterns emerged. Her health had deteriorated rapidly, with symptoms that baffled her doctors—extreme fatigue, hair loss, cognitive confusion, and ultimately organ failure.
One report caught my eye—a toxicology screen that had been ordered but later canceled by someone with administrative access. The cancellation note simply read: "Not necessary per family request."
The next folder contained purchase receipts and shipping confirmations for various chemical compounds, all addressed to a "Victoria Ross" at a PO box I didn't recognize. One particular receipt was highlighted—a purchase of a rare compound that, according to an attached research paper, could cause symptoms identical to those my mother had experienced if administered in small doses over time.
"Oh my God," I whispered, my hand flying to my mouth.
The final folder held the most damning evidence—a laboratory analysis of hair samples labeled "E.H." According to the report, the samples contained trace amounts of the same compound Victoria had purchased. A handwritten note at the bottom read: "Analysis confirms chronic poisoning. Patient likely unaware of exposure. Source unknown but consistent with food or beverage contamination."
I sat back, my mind reeling. If these documents were authentic, they proved that Victoria had systematically poisoned my mother, slowly killing her while positioning herself to take her place in our family.
But doubt crept in as I stared at the screen. The evidence seemed too perfect, too comprehensive. What were the chances that this mystery man had managed to gather all of this information? And why would he help me? What did he have to gain?
"These files look real, but..." I muttered to myself, scrolling through them again. "How did he get access to internal hospital records? And these hair samples—where did they come from? Did Mom somehow suspect something and preserve evidence?"
A sharp pain shot through my temple, and I winced, recognizing the onset of one of my migraines. They always came at the worst possible moments, especially when I was stressed. I rummaged through my purse until I found the small prescription bottle my doctor had given me for these episodes. I swallowed a pill dry, then closed my eyes, waiting for the medication to take effect.
As the pain began to subside, my thoughts cleared enough for me to focus. I needed to be strategic about this. If Victoria had murdered my mother, I couldn't just accuse her without absolute certainty the evidence was authentic. One false move could backfire catastrophically.
"I need to verify these records," I decided, closing the laptop. "Check with the hospital, track down that lab, find out if this 'Victoria Ross' actually exists. Otherwise, I might just be playing into someone else's hands."
The medication was making me drowsy, and I stretched out on the couch, pulling a throw blanket over me. Tomorrow, I would visit my father at the hospital. His reaction to subtle probing might give me some insight into whether he was complicit or merely a dupe in Victoria's schemes.
"I won't let them get away with this, Mom," I whispered into the darkened room as sleep claimed me. "I promise."