Chapter 2 - The House of SecretsBy evening, St. Michael’s Church was deserted save for crime scene tape and two state troopers stationed at the oak doors.
Alexander was safely settled in the intensive care unit of St. Jude General Hospital. Though his vocal cords were severely strained from hours of silent screaming in the pitch-black void of the sealed box, and his muscles were weakened from the synthetic neurotoxin Victor had slipped into his evening whiskey three nights prior, the doctors assured me he would make a full recovery. The cold temperature of the stone crypt beneath the mortuary chapel—where Victor had paid the crooked funeral director to stash the casket overnight before the morning service—had paradoxically slowed his metabolic rate, preserving his oxygen and keeping his brain alive against all medical odds.
Mila sat curled up in the hospital armchair beside her father’s bed, refusing to let go of his right hand.
“You came back, Papa,” she whispered, her thumb tracing his knuckles.
Alexander managed a weak, heartbreaking smile, his bruised fingers tightening around hers. “I told you, pumpkin. Daddy would never leave you.”
I stood by the window, watching the headlights of passing cars smear against the rain-slicked glass of the fourth-floor ward. My phone buzzed incessantly in my pocket—reporters, distant relatives, and well-meaning neighbors trying to piece together how a man declared dead by a licensed physician had nearly been buried alive by his own blood.
The door clicked open, and State Investigator Maria Santos stepped quietly into the room. She held a thick manila folder tucked under her arm, her expression severe and professional.
“Mr. and Mrs. Miller,” she greeted us quietly, nodding to ensure she didn't disturb the children. She stepped out into the hallway, gesturing for me to join her. I stepped through the sliding door, pulling it shut behind me.
“How is he holding up?” Santos asked, her eyes sharp.
“He’s resting,” I replied, crossing my arms against the chill of the hospital corridor. “What did you find at Victor’s house?”
Santos opened the folder, pulling out several printed financial logs and property deeds. “A treasure trove of bad decisions and criminal intent. It turns out Victor wasn’t just acting out of greed for the family homestead. Three months ago, he partnered with a shady real estate conglomerate out of Seattle called Apex Holdings. They wanted the entire ridge where your home sits to build a luxury resort. Victor signed a binding contract selling rights he didn't legally own.”
“He didn't own them because the deed is in both Alexander’s and my name,” I said, the realization dawning like a physical weight.
“Exactly,” Santos nodded. “If Alexander died intestate, and you were deemed... unstable or financially overwhelmed—which Victor was actively trying to prove by harassing you—he planned to manipulate the probate court as the closest male relative to force a quick liquidation of the estate. But Alexander discovered the forged signature on the preliminary land transfer papers last week.”
My stomach churned. “Is that why Victor poisoned him?”
“It’s why he tried to get rid of him permanently,” Santos corrected grimly. “The coroner’s report on the bribe-taking physician, Dr. Alan Vance, came through an hour ago. Vance admitted that Victor paid him twenty thousand dollars to sign the death certificate without performing an autopsy, claiming Alexander had a history of fatal congenital heart failure. They were planning to cremate him within forty-eight hours to destroy all toxicological evidence.”
I stared down at the linoleum floor. If Mila hadn’t thrown that visceral, desperate tantrum beside the coffin—if her childish innocence hadn’t pierced through the thick fog of our shared grief—Alexander would have been turned to ash in an industrial furnace twenty-four hours from now.
“Where is Victor now?” I asked.
“Holding cell at the county lockup,” Santos said, closing the folder with a sharp snap. “Charged with attempted premeditated murder, kidnapping, conspiracy, and corpse desecration. He’s not getting bail. His lawyers are already trying to cut a deal, but the prosecutor isn't interested in listening.”
“Good,” I said coldly. “Let him rot.”
“There’s one more thing,” Santos added, hesitating for a fraction of a second. “While searching Victor’s home office, my team recovered a safe. Inside wasn't just cash and property deeds. There were letters. Letters dating back six months, detailing a systematic campaign to ruin your family’s credit, sabotage Alexander’s construction contracts, and isolate you both from the community.”
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I felt a cold shiver trace down my spine. “He wanted us broken before he even laid a finger on us.”
“He wanted you vulnerable,” Santos agreed. “And now that he’s behind bars, you need to be careful. Victor has powerful, wealthy friends at Apex Holdings who just lost a multi-million-dollar development deal. They aren't going to roll over easily just because their patsy got caught.”
