the little girl told him to open his dead wife’s closet. what adrian found inside proved the wrong woman had died that night.

Upstairs, the grand foyer was in a state of utter pandemonium.

When Adrian burst through the basement doors into the main hallway carrying Emma, followed closely by Rachel, the remaining guests who hadn't fled out to their limousines were gathered in panicked clusters near the front entrance.

Margaret Westwood was standing near the grand staircase, arguing frantically with two uniformed state troopers who had just pushed their way through the front doors.

“Lieutenant!” Adrian called out, raising his voice above the murmurs of the crowd.

The lead state trooper—a tall, weathered officer with graying temples named Miller—turned sharply. His eyes swept over Adrian’s bloodied lip, his torn tuxedo jacket, and the little girl cradled in his arm.

“Mr. Westwood?” Lieutenant Miller asked, resting his hand on his holster as he stepped forward. “We received an urgent call from your mother regarding a confession and an assault on the premises. What is the situation?”

Adrian set Emma down gently, whispering a reassuring word to Rachel to take her into the quiet study, before stepping up to the trooper.

“The situation is that my wife’s death three years ago was not an accident,” Adrian said clearly, his voice carrying across the silent foyer, reaching the ears of every guest and family member present. “It was premeditated murder. And the woman standing upstairs in the private suite—Madison Cole—is the one who rigged her car.”

A collective gasp swept through the foyer.

Several prominent executives who had been sipping champagne minutes earlier dropped their glasses, the crystal shattering against the marble floor.

Lieutenant Miller’s expression hardened into professional granite. “Do you have evidence of this, Mr. Westwood?”

Adrian reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the thick, leather-bound journal and the Swiss bank documents, handing them directly to the officer.

“Inside this journal is Claire’s firsthand account of Madison embezzling millions from Westwood Enterprises and threatening her life just hours before the crash,” Adrian said, his voice ringing with absolute authority. “And in her private dressing suite upstairs, behind a secret panel, is the red jewelry box the police report listed as lost in the ravine—complete with her wedding ring and bank transfer receipts signed by Madison’s true identity: Madison Vance—no relation, but an alias she’s used across three states.”

Lieutenant Miller flipped open the journal, scanning the handwriting before looking up at his partner. ရှင်

“Davis, take two troopers and secure the third-floor private suite immediately. No one enters or leaves,” Miller ordered crisply. Then he looked back at Adrian. “Where is Ms. Cole now?”

“She went up to the dressing suite,” Adrian said. “She knows she’s trapped.”

Before Lieutenant Miller could issue further instructions, a piercing, hysterical scream echoed down from the third-floor landing.

It wasn't Madison.