Chapter 6 - THE CONFESSION
Sloan didn’t yell. He didn’t draw a weapon.
That was what made him terrifying.
He simply stepped between Del and the doctor, his broad shoulders shielding his pregnant wife. “Aris. Put the syringe down.”
Dr. Aris froze. The fake, warm smile slowly slid off his face. “Sloan, her blood pressure—”
“I know exactly what you prescribed for Cora’s allergy,” Sloan said, his voice dangerously soft. “I also know someone watered down her epinephrine injector today. And now, I know whose handwriting was on the forged dossier that sent my wife running into the night.”
Dr. Aris glanced at the door.
“Don’t,” Sloan warned.
Reversal.
Del expected Dr. Aris to panic, to beg. Instead, the older man sighed, gently placing the syringe on the desk. He looked almost relieved.
“I didn’t want to kill her, Sloan,” Aris said quietly. “I swear to you. I helped her fake her death so she could escape.”
Del stepped out from behind Sloan. “You were at the bridge with Bishop. You watched my car sink.”
“Yes,” Aris admitted. “Bishop was supposed to finish the job. I convinced him to let me falsify the dental records on a Jane Doe instead. I saved your life, Delphine.”
“By poisoning my sister today?” Sloan snarled, grabbing the doctor by the throat and slamming him against the mahogany bookshelf. Books rained down around them.
“I only gave Cora half a dose of the allergen!” Aris choked out, clawing at Sloan’s massive hands. “It was a distraction! To get everyone out of the mansion tonight so they could take the boy!”
Del screamed. “Leo!”
“Who is ‘they’?!” Sloan roared, tightening his grip. “Who is giving the orders?”
Aris sputtered, his face turning purple. “Look… at the ticket… in the boy’s pocket…”
Del didn’t wait. She turned and ran out of the study, her heavy stomach slowing her down, but maternal panic pushing her forward. She heard Sloan drop the doctor and run after her.
They took the grand staircase two steps at a time.
Del reached Leo’s bedroom door. It was wide open.
The maid Sloan had assigned to guard it was slumped on the floor, unconscious.
“Leo!” Del screamed, running into the room.
The bed was empty. The window was open, rain blowing in, soaking the superhero bedsheets.
Lying in the center of the bed was an old, faded train ticket.
Del picked it up with trembling fingers.
Sloan rushed in, his gun drawn. He looked at the empty bed, then down at the ticket in Del’s hand.
All the blood drained from the mafia boss’s face.
“No,” Sloan whispered, his voice trembling for the first time in his life. “He’s dead. He’s been dead for ten years.”
Del looked at the back of the ticket. Written in faded ink was a single phrase:
A son pays for the sins of the father.
May you like
“Sloan,” Del cried. “Whose ticket is this?”
Sloan looked at her, his eyes hollow. “My father’s.”
