Chapter 207
Chapter 207
OLIVIA’S POV
“Ma’am, we’ve done the DNA test, and the results are out.” One of the forensic guys said to me, his voice careful, as thought he already sensed the weight of what those results might carry.
I felt the towel Damien had draped across my shoulders slide slightly as I moved. It was warm against my skin, but my body felt cold, colder than the weather could ever make me. My heart thudded, echoing louder than the forensic guy’s words, yet my face remained composed.
I rose, adjusting the towel, and followed the man down the narrow corridor towards the small lab where the test had been processed. Damien walked just behind me, silent and observant. I could feel his stare, heavy with silent questions, but I didn’t meet his eyes. There wasn’t room for doubt right now not when I was so close to what I needed.
Inside the room, fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The faint smell of chemicals and stale air wrapped around us, making it feel almost claustrophobic. One of the forensic team members, a man in his late forties with lines on his face that spoke of long years staring into evidence no one else wanted to see, picked up a tablet the moment he noticed our arrival.
He stepped closer, his expression neutral, yet I could see curiosity lurking in his eyes. With a swipe of his hand, he turned the tablet screen toward me.
And there it was.
The names, black letters against a white background, burned into my vision the second I saw them.
Sam Grayson.
Jennifer Grayson.
My adoptive parents. The ones I had so carefully tucked into my past, locked away like a decaying secret I never wanted to look at again.
“Do you know these people, ma’am?” The forensic guy’s voice jolted me out of my
trance.
“Yes, I do,” I answered, forcing my voice to quiver just enough to sound believable. “They were the people who took care of me when I was little. They showed me all the love and compassion.”
It was a lie, of course–a carefully practiced one. Even Damien knew it, and the quick, confused flicker in his gaze cut into me like a blade. He had seen too much, knew too much. But even if he doubted me at this moment, he wouldn’t betray me–not yet.
I needed this performance. To paint myself as the woman who had only ever loved, only ever lost, and now had to watch the corpses of her past rise up
from the darkness.
“Since you were able to identify these people, we might need your help in finding the person who did this,” one of the officers said, his tone shifting subtly, becoming more official. “It doesn’t matter if it has been years since this happened. Everyone involved in this will get justice.”
“When was the last time you spoke to them?” his partner asked, a pen already poised over a small notepad.
“I haven’t spoken to them in over five years now,” I replied softly, lowering my gaze like someone burdened by guilt. “I left the country and… I wasn’t able to keep in touch.”
The officers exchanged a quick look before another question came. “Are they your biological parents?”
“No,” I said. “Foster parents.”
“And do you know anyone who might have done this to them?”
That was the question I had been waiting for. My heart beat louder, but outwardly I remained still. I let my chest rise and fall, let my breath catch, and then forced tears to brim in my eyes. It had to look real–it had to feel real.
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09:53 Wed, 30 Jul GD))”
Chapter 207
“Yes,” I murmured, letting the tears slide freely now. “That is the main reason why I wanted to find out if these were my foster parents
I drew in a shaky breath. The silence around us grew so thick it was almost suffocating. I could feel Damien’s eyes burning into the side of my face, and i swallowed, steadying my voice for the final act.
The words hung in the air, heavy, toxic. I watched the reaction ripple through the room like a stone thrown into still water. The officers‘ eyes widened in surprise, one of them unconsciously took a step back, his lips parting as if to say something but no words came out. Another’s hand froze, still holding the pen midair.
“I’m sorry ma’am, did you say Adrian Westwood? Like Adrian Westwood?” one of the officers asked, leaning forward as if he hadn’t heard me right. His partner’s eyebrows shot up too, and for a brief second, silence settled over the room like a thick blanket.
Their eyes met, an unspoken exchange passing between them. Doubt. Skepticism. I could practically hear it in the way they shifted their weight, the way one scratched his cheek while the other’s gaze flickered back to me, searching for cracks in my claim.
Of course they didn’t believe me–not completely. Adrian Westwood wasn’t just some ordinary suspect. To the world, he was a brilliant billionaire, a man gracing magazine covers and winning awards. Accusing him of murder felt like accusing the sun of refusing to rise.
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