THE EMPIRE OF LIES

THE FIRST CALL

The phone suddenly rang at 2:47 AM.

I was still awake, still clutching my keys, still debating whether to drive to my father's office in

the middle of the night. He hadn't answered any of my sseveral1 attempts to call him back.

When my phone lit up with an unknown number, my heart leaped.

"Dad?"

"Is this Elena Morrison?" A woman's voice. Official. Careful.

My stomach dropped. "Yes. Who is this?"

"This is Officer Sarah Chen with the Westchester Police Department. I'm afraid I have some

difficult news. There's been an accident involving Michael Morrison. Are you his daughter?"

The room tilted.

"What kind of accident?" My voice came from far away.

"A single-car collision on Route 22. I'm very sorry, Miss Morrison, but your father didn't

survive. We need you to come to Westchester Medical Center to identify, "

The phone slipped from my hand.

No.

No, no, no.

This wasn't real. I'd just talked to him. He was supposed to tell me everything tomorrow at

dinner. He was supposed to explain. He was supposed to be fine.

I sank to the floor, my back against the wall, unable to breathe.

My father was dead.

The man who taught me to read, to negotiate, to fight for what I believed in. The man who

looked at me like I hung the moon. The man who'd promised to protect me.

Gone.

I don't know how long I sat there. Minutes. Hours. Time had no meaning.

My phone buzzed with a text. I picked it up with numb fingers.

Unknown Number: I'm sorry about your father. Be careful. Trust no one. - D

Damien.

How did he already know?

My grief crystallized into something sharper. Colder.

My father's last words echoed in my mind: "Trust no one."

I pushed to my feet, wiping my face. There would be time to fall apart later. Right now, I needed

answers.

I grabbed my purse and headed for the door, then stopped.

The envelope.

My father had told me to get the envelope from his office safe. Whatever was in there, he'd

wanted me to have it. Needed me to have it.

But the police would want to secure his office. I had maybe hours before everything became a

crime scene or company property.

I changed the direction of my car.

Morrison-Cole Enterprises was a glass and steel tower in Midtown, fifty stories of power and

ambition. At three in the morning, it was nearly empty except for security and the obsessive

executives who never went home.

"Miss Morrison." The night security guard, Marcus, stood quickly when I entered the lobby. His

face was stricken. "I just heard. I'm so sorry."

News traveled fast.

"Thank you, Marcus." I kept my voice steady. "I need to get something from my father's office."

He hesitated. "The police called. They said no one should enter until, "

"Marcus." I met his eyes. "My father is dead. Whatever's in that office, whatever he wanted me

to have, I'm getting it now. Are you going to stop me?"

He looked at me for a long moment, then slowly shook his head. "No, Miss Morrison. Take all

the time you need."

I rode the elevator to the forty-eighth floor in silence, watching the numbers climb. The

executive floor was dark except for emergency lighting. My father's corner office loomed at the

end of the hall, his name still on the door in gold letters.

MICHAEL MORRISON - CEO, MORRISON DIVISION

My hand shook as I opened the door.

His office still smelled like him. Leather and old books and the peppermint candies he kept in his

desk drawer. His reading glasses sat on top of a contract he'd never finish reviewing. His coffee

mug, World's Best Dad, the one I'd given him when I was ten, sat cold and half-full on the desk.

The sob escaped before I could stop it.

I pressed my fist to my mouth, refusing to break down. Not yet. Not here.

The safe was behind the Monet on the wall, the painting of water lilies that my mother had given

him on their twentieth anniversary. I moved it aside with shaking hands and punched in the code.

10-15-98. My birthday.

The safe clicked open.

Inside was a manila envelope with my name written in my father's handwriting. Beneath it,

stacks of documents, a thumb drive, and a small leather journal.

I grabbed everything, shoving it all into my bag.

Voices echoed from the hallway.

", checking all the offices. The daughter might try to remove evidence, "

Police. Already here.

I closed the safe, rehung the painting, and moved to the door just as it opened.

A man in a rumpled suit stood there, badge clipped to his belt. Detective, not uniform. His eyes

were sharp despite the late hour.

"Miss Morrison. I'm Detective James Rodriguez. I was hoping to speak with you."

"At my father's office? At three in the morning?" I kept my bag casually over my shoulder,

hyperaware of the documents inside.

"Your security guard said you were here. I'm sorry for your loss." He stepped inside, uninvited.

"But I have some questions about your father's accident."

"Accident?" I latched onto the word. "What else would it be?"

"That's what we're trying to determine." His eyes swept the office. "When was the last time you

spoke to your father?"

"Around eleven-thirty. He called me."

"About what?"

I hesitated. Trust no one, my father had said.

"Dinner plans," I lied smoothly. "He wanted me to come to the house tomorrow night."

"Did he seem upset? Worried?"

"No more than usual." Another lie. "He'd been stressed about work lately."

"What kind of work stress?"

"Detective, my father just died." I let my voice c***k slightly. "Can we do this later? I need to go

to the hospital."

His expression softened. "Of course. But Miss Morrison, one more thing. Your father's brake

lines were severed. This wasn't an accident. This was murder."

The room spun.

I gripped the back of my father's chair. "What?"

"Someone cut his brake lines. Probably earlier today. He wouldn't have known until he tried to

stop." Rodriguez watched me carefully. "Do you know anyone who wanted your father dead?"

Robert Cole's face flashed in my mind. "You have until Friday, Michael. Then I do this my way."

"No," I said. "Everyone loved my father."

"What about business rivals? Competitors?"

"We're a Fortune 500 company, Detective. We have competitors. But murder?" I shook my head.

"That's insane."

"Is it?" He pulled out a small notepad. "Your father was about to testify in a federal investigation.

Did you know that?"

My blood ran cold. "What investigation?"

"I'm not at liberty to say. But someone clearly wanted to keep him quiet." His eyes bored into

mine. "If you know anything, Miss Morrison, now's the time to tell me. Before someone else gets

hurt."

I thought about the envelope in my bag. The documents. The thumb drive.

Trust no one.

"I don't know anything," I said firmly. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to identify my father's

body."

I walked past him before he could ask more questions.

The Westchester Medical Center morgue was exactly as cold and sterile as you'd imagine. A

different officer led me down a hallway that smelled like disinfectant and death.

"Are you ready?" she asked gently.

I nodded, even though I'd never be ready.

She pulled back the sheet.

My father's face was pale, peaceful. Like he was sleeping. There were cuts and bruises from the

crash, but his expression was calm. Almost relieved.

"That's him," I whispered. "That's Michael Morrison. That's my father."

"I'm very sorry for your loss."

I stood there, memorizing his face. The laugh lines around his eyes. The small scar on his chin

from a skiing accident when I was twelve. The silver in his hair that he'd been so vain about.

"Can I have a moment alone?"

The officer hesitated, then nodded. "I'll be right outside."

When the door closed, I leaned close to my father, my voice barely a whisper.

"I'll find who did this to you. I promise." Tears finally spilled over. "And Dad? I'm sorry. I'm

sorry I didn't demand answers when I had the chance. I'm sorry I let you leave the Met. I'm sorry

I wasn't there."

I kissed his cold forehead and walked away before I completely fell apart.

Dawn was breaking when I finally made it home. Pink and gold light streamed through my

apartment windows, beautiful and wrong. The world had no right to be beautiful when my father

was dead.

I dumped the contents of my bag onto my dining table.

The envelope. The documents. The thumb drive. The journal.

I opened the envelope first.

Inside was a letter in my father's handwriting.

Elena,

If you're reading this, then I'm dead, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you the

way I wanted to. I'm sorry I left you alone in this mess.

Robert Cole is not who you think he is. He's been embezzling from the company for years. I

have proof, it's all on the thumb drive. Account numbers, transactions, shell companies.

Everything.

I was going to turn him in, but he found out. He threatened to kill me, and I didn't take

him seriously enough. I should have gone to the FBI immediately. I should have been

smarter.

Lily Cole discovered the embezzlement by accident. She was working as an intern in

accounting and saw something she shouldn't have. She told me, and I promised to handle it.

But Robert found out she knew.

Elena, Lily didn't drown accidentally. Robert killed her. His own daughter. To keep her

quiet.

And now he's killed me too.

I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I was trying to protect you. But you deserve the truth.

Trust Damien. I know you two have had your differences, but he's not like his father. He

doesn't know what Robert has done. When you tell him, he'll help you. I'm sure of it.

Take the evidence to the FBI. Bring Robert down. And Elena?

Don't trust anyone else. Robert has people everywhere. The board, the police, maybe even

the DA's office. The only person you can trust is Damien.

I love you, sweetheart. More than anything in this world.

Make them pay.

- Dad

The letter shook in my hands.

Lily didn't drown accidentally.

Robert killed his own daughter.

And now he'd killed my father.

I looked at the other documents spread across my table. Bank statements showing millions

disappearing into offshore accounts. Emails between Robert and unknown parties. Transaction

records going back years.

My father had been building a case. And it had gotten him killed.

A knock at my door made me jump.

I shoved everything back into the envelope and opened the door a c***k, keeping the chain on.

Damien stood there, still in last night's clothes, looking like he hadn't slept. His eyes were

red-rimmed, his hair disheveled.

"I heard," he said roughly. "Elena, I'm so sorry."

I stared at him through the gap in the door.

Trust Damien, my father had written.

But Damien's father had just murdered mine.

How could I trust him? How could I look at him and not see Robert Cole's son?

"Go away, Damien."

"Elena, please, "

"Your father killed mine." The words came out flat, dead.

His face went white. "What?"

"The detective said it was murder. Someone cut the brake lines." I watched his reaction carefully.

"Who else had motive?"

"You think my father, " He looked gutted. "Elena, no. He wouldn't. He couldn't, "

"Three days ago, he threatened my father at the gala. I heard him."

"That was business. Aggressive business, but not, " He ran a hand through his hair. "Jesus, Elena.

You can't actually think, "

"I don't know what to think." My voice cracked. "My father is dead. And your father had every

reason to want him gone."

"Let me in. Please. We need to talk about this."

I hesitated, then closed the door to remove the chain.

When I opened it again, Damien stepped inside. His eyes immediately went to the documents on

my table.

"What is all this?"

"Evidence." I moved to block his view. "My father left it for me."

"Evidence of what?"

I studied his face. He looked genuinely confused. Genuinely devastated.

Trust Damien, my father had written.

But could I? Could I really trust the son of the man who'd murdered my father?

"Your father has been embezzling," I said quietly. "For years. My father found out. And your

father killed him to keep him quiet."

Damien stared at me. "That's impossible."

"Is it? Your father threatened him. My father died. Connect the dots."

"My father is ruthless. He's cutthroat. But murder?" Damien shook his head. "No. You're wrong."

"Then explain the evidence."

"What evidence? Some papers your father left? Elena, you're in shock. You're not thinking

clearly, "

"Don't." I stepped back. "Don't patronize me. I know what I saw. I know what my father wrote."

"Show me."

"Why? So you can warn your father? Destroy the evidence?"

His face hardened. "You really think that little of me?"

"I don't know what to think anymore." Tears burned behind my eyes. "I don't know who to trust."

We stood there, three feet apart, an entire chasm between us.

Finally, Damien moved toward the door. "I'm sorry about your father. He was a good man. I

respected him." His hand was on the doorknob when he paused. "But Elena? If you're going after

my father, you're going to war with the entire Cole family. Including me."

"Then I guess we're enemies now."

Something flashed in his eyes. Pain. Regret. Anger.

"I guess we are."

He left without another word.

I locked the door behind him and sank to the floor, finally letting myself cry.

My father was dead.

Lily was dead.

Robert Cole had killed them both.

And I was alone in a war I hadn't asked for, against a man who'd already proven he'd kill to

protect his secrets.

But I had one advantage.

I had the evidence.

And I was going to use it to destroy him.

Even if it meant destroying Damien in the process.

"She was my little sister. Of course I loved her."

"And you're doing this for her. Not for me. Not for my father. For Lily."