Page 46 of His Verdict

I am lost, adrift on a sea of sensation and emotion I can’t even begin to name. The horror, the fear, the shock—it’s all still there, but I have made my choice. I have chosen the monster.

Chapter 22

I can't sleep.

Jasper sleeps beside me, a deep, untroubled slumber. One of his heavy arms is thrown over my waist, a possessive, unconscious anchor. His breathing is a slow, even rhythm against my back, the sound of a predator at rest in his own den, utterly secure. He has what he wants. He has me. And for the first time, he feels safe enough to be completely vulnerable in my presence. The irony is a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth.

Every time I close my eyes, I don't see the horror of Arthur Vance's death anymore. I see the faded, sun-drenched photograph of two children under an oak tree. A sad little boy in a suit and a gap-toothed little girl in a blue dress. I see two decades of my life spooling out behind that single image, a life I thought was my own, but was merely an observation. A prelude.

I kept an eye on you.

The casual, terrifying statement echoes in my mind. What does that mean? What does it look like to have the heir of the Sinclair dynasty "keep an eye on you"? The questions are a swarm of angry hornets in my brain, and I know I will not find any peace until I have answers.

Carefully, meticulously, I begin to extricate myself from his hold. I lift his arm, inch by excruciating inch, my own muscles screaming with the effort of not waking him. His arm is heavy, a dead weight of muscle and bone. I finally get it free and slide it onto the bed beside him. I hold my breath, waiting. Hemurmurs something in his sleep, a low, incoherent sound, and rolls onto his back, but his eyes remain closed.

I slip out of the bed, my bare feet silent on the cold concrete floor. The air in the penthouse is cool against my skin. I grab a silk robe. I don’t bother tying it. I just need to feel something other than the lingering heat of his body on my skin.

Where would he keep it? Where does a man like Jasper Donovan Sinclair keep his secrets?

His study.

I’ve only been in it a few times. It’s a room off the main living area, a place he goes when he needs absolute silence. Unlike his spartan, minimalist office downtown, this room is a reflection of the man, not the CEO. It’s lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with first editions of classic literature, philosophy, and military history. A massive, antique mahogany desk sits in the center, and two deep leather armchairs face a fireplace that is, for once, not lit. The room smells of old paper, leather, and his unique, cedarwood scent. It is the heart of his fortress.

I slip inside, pulling the heavy door almost completely shut behind me, leaving only a sliver of an opening. The room is dark, save for the ambient glow of the city lights filtering through the single large window. I don't turn on a light. I move by instinct, my eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom.

My target is the desk. It’s a massive, imposing piece of furniture with several deep drawers. I try the top-right one. Locked. Of course. I try the others. All locked. I run my hands over the smooth, cool wood, a frisson of frustration and fear running through me.

And then I see it. A small, almost invisible keypad built into the side panel of the desk, perfectly flush with the wood. My heart sinks. I have no idea what the code could be. A birthdate? An anniversary?

My eyes scan the room, searching for a clue, for any number that might have significance. My gaze lands on the photo on his desk. The one of us. The funeral.

What was the date?I think frantically. I have no idea.

I look at the computer on the desk. It’s asleep. I tap the spacebar. The screen wakes, asking for a password. I’m about to give up when I notice a small, silver box in the corner of the login screen. A fingerprint scanner.

His fingerprint. Of course. This desk wasn’t designed to be opened with a code. It was designed to be opened only by him.

I feel a surge of defeat. But then, my eyes fall on the crystal highball glass sitting on a leather coaster right next to the laptop. The glass he was drinking from earlier tonight. The condensation has beaded on the outside, and on the smooth, curved surface is a perfect, clear, single thumbprint.

My heart starts a frantic tattoo against my ribs. It's a crazy, long shot. The kind of thing that only happens in movies. I lift the glass carefully, my fingers wrapped in the silk of my robe to avoid smudging it. I hold my breath and press the thumbprint on the glass against the small, glowing scanner.

For a second, nothing happens. Then, there is a soft, satisfyingclick.

The central drawer of the desk pops open an inch.

I almost sob with relief and terror. I set the glass down and gently pull the drawer open. It’s not filled with pens and paperclips. It contains a series of neat, meticulously organized file folders, each tabbed with a different name. My eyes scan the tabs.Vance, Arthur. Thorne, Marcus. Brown, Jessica.He has files on everyone.

And then I see it. The last file in the stack. The tab is stark and simple.

Sutton, Olivia.

My hand is trembling so violently I can barely grasp the folder. I lift it out of the drawer. It’s thick. Heavy. The weight of my own life, cataloged and contained. I carry it over to one of the leather armchairs by the window, the city lights providing just enough illumination to read by.

I open it.

The first thing I see is a photograph of myself. It’s my second-grade school picture. The gap-toothed smile, the unruly pigtails. The same girl from the photo on his phone. Beneath it, another photo. Me at my middle school science fair, proudly standing next to a Styrofoam model of a volcano. Me at my high school prom, looking awkward and flushed in a powder-blue dress, Marcus’s arm slung possessively around my shoulders. Me on my college graduation day, beaming, my diploma in my hand.

It’s a complete, chronological history of my life, told in stolen moments. They are not snapshots. They are surveillance photos. Taken from a distance, with a long lens. I am always unaware. Just living my life, while a silent, invisible eye documented my every milestone.