Page 64 of Ruin
The same system that would use me as bait to catch him, then discard me when the case was closed.
I start to dial the FBI tip line three times, hanging up each time before it connects.
What exactly would I report?
That I have evidence linking my lover to a nine-year-old murder?
They'd want to know how I got the evidence, why I kept it, what my relationship is to the suspect.
And then they'd want to use me.
Wire me up, send me back to him, make me play the devoted girlfriend while they build their case.
Turn me into bait for the monster who's already caught me.
No. This is bigger than law enforcement can handle. This is personal.
This is mine.
I pull up my laptop and start researching everything I can find about the Wolfe family, diving deeper than my father ever could with his limited law enforcement resources.
What I discover makes my father's investigation look like amateur hour.
Over the past nine years, at least twenty-six people connected to my father's case have died in "accidents" or "suicides."
Witnesses who might have testified found dead from apparent drug overdoses despite having no history of substance abuse.
Police officers who asked too many questions transferred to dead-end assignments or forced into early retirement after manufactured scandals.
A forensics technician who found inconsistencies in the crime scene evidence died in a car crash when her brakes mysteriously failed.
All dead. Most within the first two years after my parents' murder.
Cassius wasn't just covering his tracks—he was killing anyone who might connect him to that night.
The scope of it is breathtaking.
Terrifying.
The work of someone who plans decades ahead and leaves nothing to chance.
Someone who spent years positioning himself to corrupt their daughter.
I find more evidence of his reach.
Bank records showing payments to corrupt officials.
Photographs of judges taking envelopes of cash.
A network of influence and intimidation that reaches into every level of city government, every branch of law enforcement.
He doesn't just run a criminal organization—he owns the system that's supposed to stop him.
The realization breaks something fundamental inside me.
I throw my laptop across the room, watch it shatter against the wall in an explosion of plastic and sparks.
I sweep the files off my coffee table, papers scattering like snow across the hardwood, and grab my father's favorite coffee mug—the one that says "World's Best Dad" that I've kept on my kitchen counter for longer than I can remember—and hurl it at the mirror, watching both explode into fragments.
