Chapter 17

ROSE'S POINT OF VIEW

"Ms. Lewis, do you think the police should reopen the investigation into your sister's death?"

The reporter's question hit me like ice water as I stepped out of my boutique. Three months. Three months since Camille's car had been pulled from the river. Three months of playing the grieving sister while secretly celebrating my freedom. And still, these vultures wouldn't let it rest.

I arranged my face into the perfect mask of dignified grief I'd perfected. "My family continues to cooperate fully with authorities," I said, voice carefully modulated to show emotion without appearing unstable. "But we've accepted the official conclusion. Sometimes we must find peace without all the answers."

The reporter pressed closer, microphone extended. "Sources close to the investigation say no body was ever recovered. Some suggest the case should be treated as a missing person situation rather than a presumed drowning."

My heart skipped a beat, though my expression remained steady. "The current was exceptionally strong that night. The police explained this to us. Many drowning victims are never..." I let my voice catch deliberately,"...never found."

This performance was becoming tedious. I'd given the same answers at the memorial service, at charity events, at business functions. Always the grieving sister, bravely carrying on despite unimaginable loss. lt had worked beautifully at first-sympathy opening doors, sad smiles earning trust, tearful interviews generating publicity for my fashion line.

But lately, the questions had shifted. Where's the body? Why was she driving there that night? Was there a suicide note? Each one carrying the unspoken suggestion that things didn't add up.

"One last question-" the reporter started, but I cut him off with a raised hand.

"I'm late for a meeting with investors. Please respect my family's privacy during this difficult time."

My driver held the car door open, and I slid inside, dropping the sorrowful expression the moment the tinted windows shielded me from view. Tension coiled in my stomach like a snake. These questions were becoming problematic.

"The Lewis Industries offices," I instructed the driver, checking my makeup in a compact mirror. Perfect, as always. Not a crack in the facade.

I glanced at the news alert on my phone as I slid into the car.

The headline made my blood freeze.

**HEIRESS DROWNING: QUESTIONS REMAIN**

The article rehashed the basics, Camille's car found partially submerged, no witnesses, no body recovered despite extensive searching. But it also included quotes from a"source close to the investigation"suggesting the case had been closed prematurely due to pressure from unnamed powerful interests.

I closed the article with a flick of my finger. My father had probably seen it already. He monitored all news about the family obsessively since Camille's disappearance.

Of course he was. Daddy never could.handle pressure. Always looking to others to fix his problems, usually me, since Camille had been useless in a crisis. Just one more way I'd proven my value to the family that chose me.

The car pulled up to Lewis Industries, the gleaming tower that housed my father's company. The business he'd built from nothing, the empire that should have been mine from the beginning, if not for his sentimentality regarding his biological daughter.

The receptionist smiled as I entered the lobby. "Ms. Lewis, your father is expecting you."

The executive'elevator whisked me to thetop floor, where Dad's assistant ushered me straight into his office. He stood at the window, back to the door, shoulders tense beneath his tailored suit. He'd lost weight in the past three months, grief aging him visibly.

"Daddy," I said softly, closing the door behind me. "You wanted to see me?"

He turned, face haggard in ways makeup couldn't hide. None of the fake grief I'd perfected, but genuine suffering etched into every line. It was pathetic, really. All this pain for a daughter who had never appreciated what she had.

"Rose." He opened his arms, and I stepped into them, playing my part perfectly. The supportive daughter.The family's rock. "Have you seen the papers?"

"Just now. It's nothing,tabloid nonsense."

He released me, moving to his desk where several newspapers lay open. Not just the Post, but the Times the Journal. All running variations of the same story.

"The board is concerned," he said, sinking into his chair. "These rumors... the suggestion of impropriety...it's affecting investor confidence."

I perched on the edge of his desk, laying a comforting hand on his arm. "The police investigation was thorough. The case is closed. These are just reporters looking for a story where none exists."

"Your mother hired a private investigator."

The words hit me like a slap. "She what?"

Dad rubbed his temples, looking older by the minute. "Behind my back. Said she couldn't live with unanswered questions. Needed closure."

Panic fluttered in my.chest, but | kept my voce level. "That's unnecessary. And potentially damaging to the company if it suggests we don't trust the official investigation."

"That's what I told her!" His fist hit the desk, a rare display of temper. "But she won't listen. Ever since...since we lost Camille, she's been different. Distant. Suspicious."

Of me, he meant. Though he wouldn't say it aloud. Mom had always been more perceptive than him, more likely to see through my careful manipulations. She'd been watching me with narrowed eyes at family dinners,studying me when she thought I wasn't looking.

"P'H talk to her," I promised, mind already racing through potential problems. A private investigator meant questions. Digging.Potentially uncovering things better left buried.

Like the men I'd hired to scare Camille. The ones who were supposed to rough her up a bit, send a message, then disappear. Not force her car off a bridge. Not kill her.

That hadn't been the plan. Excessive, messy, and unnecessary. But what was done was done, and I'd adapted accordingly. Tragedy could be useful when properly managed.

"It's not just the investigation," Dad continued, looking miserable. "The memorial fund donations have raised questions too. That Times reporter asked for a breakdown of how the money's being used."

The Camille Lewis Memorial Fund, my masterstroke. Set up ostensibly to support mental health awareness,it had generated nearly two million in donations, much of which was currently financing my fashion line's expansion. All perfectly legal, with the right paperwork and the right accountants. But not something that would withstand intense scrutiny.

"I'll have the Foundation's accountants prepare a statement,"|said smoothly."Complete transparency will put these questions to rest."

Dad nodded, clearly relieved to have me handling things. Always so eager to believe the best of me. To see me as the good daughter, the responsible one. The worthy heir.

"There's one more thing," he said, hesitation in his voice. "Detective Ramirez called this morning. They found something downstream. A... a shoe. They think it might be Camille's."

My stomach dropped. "After three months in the water?"

"Caught in debris, apparently. They want us to identify it."

A shoe. Just a shoe. Not a body. Not evidence of anything except that my sister had been wearing footwear when her car went into the river. Still, it unsettled me. Physical evidence connecting Camille to the water.

"When?"

"Tomorrow morning." He looked away. "Would you go? Your mother can't handleit,and l..."

"Of course."|squeezed his hand, the dutiful daughter once more. "I'll handle everything."

I left his office with my mind churning. Too many loose threads. The newspaper articles. Mom's private investigator. Now this shoe. Small things individually, but together they formed a pattern I didn't like.Questions leading to more questions.Attention I didn't need.

My phone buzzed as I reached the lobby. A text from one of my investors, confirming our meeting tomorrow.I responded quickly, promising to bring the updated business projections.

As my car arrived, I couldn't help but feel irritation building. These questions about Camille's disappearance were becoming an unwelcome distraction from my business plans. The last thing I needed was police reopening the case and digging into details better left buried.

Details that only I knew. The men I'd hired to scare Camille that night. The plan that had gone terribly wrong when they forced her car off the bridge instead of just delivering a warning. A miscalculation I hadn't anticipated, but one I'd quickly adapted to use to my advantage.

The afternoon crawled by in a haze of meetings and phone calls. My fashion line was gaining traction,featured in Vogue last month, celebrities requesting custom pieces. Everything I'd worked for was falling into place.

Except these damned questions that wouldn't die.