Tara had always hated fluorescent lights.
The ones in the subway station restroom were the worst—cold, flickering, humming like dying insects. They buzzed in her ears as she peeled off her bloodstained slip, her hands shaking so badly she could barely work it down her body. The air smelled of mildew and old urine, the tiles beneath her feet grimy, sticky.
She swallowed back the bile rising in her throat.
The slip slumped to the floor in a wet heap.
Her body—her skin—was still stained. Dark red streaks covered her arms, her chest, smeared in places where she must have wiped her hands. There was dried blood under her fingernails. She turned her hands over, staring.
Did I kill him?
The thought came like a whisper, curling around her brain like smoke. Her pulse pounded against her skull, sending fresh waves of nausea through her body.
She scrubbed her hands under the sink until her skin turned raw. The water ran pink at first, then clear, but she still felt dirty. She grabbed a wad of rough brown paper towels and wiped herself down, trying not to gag as she cleaned the sticky patches of dried blood from her thighs, her stomach, her arms.
Her head was pounding—too many drinks, too many joints, and the remnants of a night she couldn't quite piece together. Her right arm ached, a deep, pulsing pain that flared every time she moved it. She had a bruise on her shoulder. Her lip felt swollen.
But there was no time to think about that now.
She dug through the plastic bag she had stolen from a bodega on the way here. A hoodie, too big for her, and a pair of gray sweatpants. Cheap sneakers. Clothes that screamed invisible. She pulled them on in jerky, frantic movements, stuffing her bloodied slip and used paper towels nto the bag.
Then she hesitated.
She couldn't just throw them in the trash. If someone found them—if someone saw her…
Tara's breath hitched. She pressed her fingers against her temples.
Think. Think, Tara.
She unloaded the bag and shoved the items into the toilet. The fabric absorbed the water, turning darker, sinking slowly. She flushed once, then again, watching the material twist and fold as the water fought to drag it down. The toilet choked on the effort, and she bit her lip.
A bang from outside the restroom stall made her jolt.
"Takin' all day in there?" someone muttered, their voice hoarse.
She held her breath.
A few seconds later, the door creaked open again. Footsteps shuffled out. She waited, counting in her head.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Then she pushed the handle again. The water sucked at the slip, pulling it deeper, breaking it apart.
Go. Now.
She grabbed the plastic bag and shoved it into the trash outside, buried under other people's waste. Then she pulled the hood low over her face and stepped out of the restroom.
The station was busy—late-morning rush. Commuters trudged up and down the stairs, some clutching coffee cups, others with headphones in, their gazes fixed on their phones. No one paid her any attention.
Tara moved quickly, slipping into the stream of people heading toward the exit. The city swallowed her whole, just like it always had.
⸻
The ATM screen blinked at her, reflecting her face in its smudged glass.
BALANCE: $87,409.32
Lucas's money.
Tara's stomach twisted.
She didn't remember taking his wallet, but it had been in his jacket pocket when she ran. The black leather was now damp from her sweating palms. His ID was inside. His credit cards. And now, she was about to rob a dead man.
No. Not rob. Survive.
She selected the maximum withdrawal limit. A thick stack of bills slid out. She grabbed them, stuffing them deep into the hoodie pocket before she could second-guess herself.
Then she turned, walking fast, not running. Running drew attention.
She pushed through the glass doors of the bodega and stepped back onto the street, the noise of Manhattan crashing down around her. Car horns, bus brakes hissing, distant sirens. The scent of hot garbage mixed with fresh bagels and damp pavement.
A screen flickered to life on the building across from her. The midday news.
"BREAKING: LUCAS CALDWELL FOUND DEAD IN LUXURY HOTEL ROOM."
The words sent an electric jolt through her body.
The newscaster's voice rang through the street, cutting through the chaos. "Lucas Caldwell, the 29-year-old heir to the Caldwell real estate empire, was found dead early this morning in a Manhattan hotel room. Police have yet to confirm details, but sources say the primary suspect is a woman who was seen leaving the scene."
Tara's throat closed.
Then the screen changed.
A grainy security still. Her.
The image was blurry, but it was her. Hood up, face angled away, but still—her.
The blood drained from her body.
She had nowhere to go.
~*~*~
The penthouse at The Caldwell Tower was a masterpiece of glass, steel, and old money. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Manhattan skyline like a living portrait, the Empire State Building standing tall in the distance. The furniture—modern but impossibly expensive—was curated rather than arranged, with sleek leather sofas and abstract sculptures that looked cold to the touch. Everything here was pristine, curated, controlled.
The air smelled faintly of fresh peonies, arranged in a crystal vase on the marble coffee table, their pale pink petals a delicate contrast to the harsh city beyond.
Marissa Caldwell sat poised on one of the sofas, her spine straight, silk robe tied flawlessly around her slim frame. The only thing out of place was the untouched glass of lemon water beside her. She had been sipping from it absentmindedly when the doorbell rang—when everything changed.
Across from her, Nina lounged in an armchair, one leg tucked beneath her. Unlike her mother, she looked out of place in the sterile luxury of their home—barefoot, dressed in an oversized NYU sweatshirt and leggings, her dark curls tumbling over one shoulder. A silver ring glinted on her finger as she scrolled through her phone, barely paying attention.
Then the doorman called up to announce Detectives Vasquez and Rourke, and within moments, the world as they knew it shattered.
⸻
"We regret to inform you…"
The words barely registered at first.
Marissa's fingers tightened around her glass, nails pressing against the smooth surface. The detectives—s Lady and a gentleman in dark suits, one middle-aged man, the lady younger—stood stiffly in front of her, their presence an intrusion in her carefully curated space.
She blinked.
The words repeated, slower this time.
Lucas is dead.
"No," she said, shaking her head, the word escaping before she could control it. Her voice was measured, but the tremor in it betrayed her.
"Mrs. Caldwell, I know this is difficult—"
"No." Louder this time.
Her breath hitched, throat constricting, but she refused to cry. Her son was not dead. This was a mistake. A misunderstanding. Lucas wasn't reckless. He wasn't weak. He wasn't the kind of man who just… died.
Across the room, Nina had gone completely still.
The phone she had been holding slipped from her grasp, landing on the Persian rug with a muffled thud. Her dark eyes darted between the detectives, then to her mother, then back again, waiting for someone—anyone—to correct them.
"What… what are you saying?" Nina's voice was quieter than Marissa's, rough around the edges. "Are you telling me that Lucas is gone?"
"I'm very sorry, Miss Caldwell," Detective Vasquez said. Her face was worn, professional but not unkind. "He was found early this morning at The Sterling Hotel. His cause of death appears to be a gunshot wound."
A sharp inhale.
Marissa's nails dug into her palm.
Gunshot wound.
Murder.
Her gaze snapped up. "Someone killed my son?"
The older detective nodded. "Yes, ma'am. We are treating this as a homicide investigation."
Silence filled the space between them. Thick. Suffocating.
Then—
"Do you have a suspect?" Marissa demanded, voice ice-cold.
Detective Rourke hesitated, glancing at his partner.
"We do," Vasquez admitted finally. "We have surveillance footage and witness reports from the hotel. The primary suspect at this time is a woman named Tara Onwudiwe."
The name sliced through the air like a blade.
Marissa inhaled sharply, her entire body stiffening as if she had been physically struck. Her lips parted, but no sound came.
Then—
"Tara?" Nina echoed, blinking rapidly.
Unlike her mother, her reaction wasn't fury—it was confusion. Her brows pulled together, as if trying to solve a puzzle that didn't make sense. "That's… that's impossible."
Vasquez sighed. "Miss Caldwell, we understand this is shocking, but—"
"No." Nina shook her head, gripping the arms of the chair. "I know Tara. She wouldn't—she couldn't—do something like this."
"She was the last person seen with him."
"That doesn't mean she killed him," Nina snapped. Her voice was rising, disbelief giving way to anger. "Did you even stop to think—"
"She was seen fleeing the scene covered in blood."
That shut her up.
Nina's mouth opened slightly, then closed.
She exhaled shakily, rubbing her temple. Her mind was racing—Tara? No. No way. Tara loved Lucas. They had their ups and downs, sure, but murder? That was insane.
Marissa, however, had no doubts.
She pushed herself up from the couch, slowly, deliberately, like a queen rising from her throne. The detectives took a step back.
Her face was unreadable, but her eyes—dark, sharp—were filled with something raw.
"I told him," she murmured, voice almost too quiet to hear. "I told him she was dangerous."
"Mom—" Nina started.
Marissa ignored her.
"She never belonged with him," she continued, her voice sharpening with every word. "She was beneath him. A parasite. I knew she would ruin him, and now—now she's taken everything."
Her breath was shallow, her hands clenched.
Vasquez opened her mouth, as if to intervene, but Marissa wasn't done.
"You find her," she ordered, her voice shaking with restrained fury. "And you make her pay."
A heavy silence followed.
Then Nina exhaled, shaking her head.
"You don't even know what happened," she said, softer this time, but still firm. "We don't know the whole story."
Marissa turned to her daughter, eyes flashing.
"The story is simple," she said coldly. "That woman murdered your brother."
Nina bit her lip, her arms wrapping around herself.
She didn't agree.
She couldn't agree.
But Lucas was dead.
And the world was already spinning out of control.