Chapter 3

During the precinct briefing, the lead investigator from the federal task force slammed a stack of files onto the table.

"Detective Sterling, the suspect, Ghost, keeps insisting that Jessica Vance hired him for the hit."

"According to protocol, Jessica must be placed under internal investigation."

Sean leaned back in his chair, spinning a pen in his hand. He didn't even look at the files.

"Agent Miller, I know the protocols."

"But if we start investigating a detective's family just because some street thug opened his mouth, how are my guys supposed to do their jobs?"

He stopped the pen with his fingertip.

"I closed Vivian Hall's missing person case three years ago myself."

"The travel records are crystal clear. She took thirty million dollars from the mob and took a boat to the Caribbean."

"Ghost claims she was killed in Warehouse 3. Where is the body?"

Sean stood up, leaning his hands on the table, staring down the federal agent.

"No body, no financial paper trail, just the word of a junkie."

"Agent Miller, if you want to investigate my wife, bring me real evidence."

I floated near the whiteboard, watching Sean defend my killer. I smiled silently.

He would never know that his "innocent" wife was actually the daughter of the head of the Vance Syndicate---the city's most ruthless crime family.

She was the deepest mole ever planted in the NYPD.

She had framed my father's family---who never touched drugs or took innocent lives---for all the bloody crimes committed by the Vances.

And that "travel record" Sean was so sure of? It was nothing but a cruel bargain Jessica forced upon me.

The night Jayden was stabbed while shielding Sean, he was left clinging to life.

But Sean had used his police connections to block every medical channel that could have saved my brother.

Desperate, I knelt before Jessica.

In the sterile white hallway of the hospital, she stood in her crisp uniform and tossed a plane ticket and a written confession at my feet.

Her voice was as sweet as honey.

"Sign it."

"Admit that you betrayed Marcus, and I'll get the best surgeon in New York to save your brother."

I signed it.

But the surgeon never came.

Instead, someone unplugged Jayden's ventilator.

Though Jayden survived, the lack of oxygen caused permanent brain damage. He lost his sight completely, cast into eternal darkness.

Jessica had stepped on my face with her polished boots, crushing my dignity into the cold tiles.

She had leaned down and whispered in my ear:

"Vivian, I forgot to tell you. Sean hates betrayal more than anything."

"Do you think he'll believe a confession signed in your own hand, or will he believe me?"

Back in his office, Sean locked the door.

He loosened his tie and pulled open his bottom drawer.

He took out the file at the very bottom---my missing person case from three years ago.

He stared at my photo, his thumb unconsciously brushing against the corner of the paper.

After a long time, he closed the file, his expression unreadable.

He pressed his hand flat against the folder, his knuckles turning white as if trying to erase my name from the earth.

But after a long struggle, all that came out of his tight jaw was a raspy whisper.

"Vivian... you better stay gone."

I floated down in front of him, looking at the hatred and conflict in his eyes.

"Because if you come back, I'll put you behind bars myself... or will I go crazy for you all over again?"

A wave of deep sadness washed over me.

He didn't know that I could never come back. I was already dead.

The desk phone rang.

He took a deep breath, and his voice instantly softened.

"Hey, babe. Is the baby kicking again?"

On the other end, Jessica's voice sounded perfectly vulnerable.

"Sean, I was cleaning out the storage unit and found an old gray sweater Vivian left behind."

"It makes me feel really uneasy. Can I just pack it away in a box?"

Sean's eyes went cold.

"Her trash should have been thrown out long ago. Don't touch it. I'll come home and handle it."

He hung up, grabbed his keys, and rushed out.

I followed him back to the apartment.

Sean strode into the storage room and snatched the gray sweater out of Jessica's hands.

I had knitted that sweater for him, stitch by stitch, by his hospital bed when he was shot during an undercover operation.

He held the sweater, his fingers lingering on the uneven stitching near the chest.

Then, he threw it into the hallway trash can.

The edge of the trash can caught a loose thread, pulling the fabric apart to reveal a faded paper amulet sewn inside.

I had waited in line at a cathedral all night just to get that blessing for him.

He had laughed at me back then, saying cops didn't believe in superstitions.

But then he had pulled me close and asked me to sew it into his favorite sweater so he wouldn't lose it.

He said he was afraid of losing his luck.