Chapter 28
The study felt smaller than it had ever been. The walls, lined with heavy shelves of books and framed photographs, seemed to press inward, the air thick enough to choke. Bruce sat slumped in the armchair, the phone still in his hand, the final message blazing on the screen.
You know the truth now. It was always me.
His grip tightened until his knuckles whitened, then slackened, the device slipping to the rug with a muted thud. His chest heaved as though the weight of the words had caved it in. His mind raced through every moment, every whispered reassurance, every carefully placed word from Lyra. The mask she had worn had not just fooled him; it had guided him straight into ruin.
His head fell into his hands. For the first time in years, Bruce Ford wept without restraint.
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