Chapter 7 - The Camera That Never Blinked
Frank removed the microphones but replaced them with decoys.
That was his idea.
“Whoever planted them needs to believe they're still working.”
For the first time in months, I remembered why I hired him.
“What do we feed them?”
Frank smiled.
“Whatever you want them to hear.”
So we gave Arya and Dominic exactly what they expected.
I complained about pain.
I told Melissa I didn't believe therapy would help.
I called Dominic and apologized for delaying the harbor contract.
I let Arya overhear me telling Arthur—on a staged phone call—that I felt too exhausted to deal with corporate matters.
Most importantly, I said I wanted the wedding moved forward.
Arya became affectionate again.
It was unsettling how quickly love returned once I behaved according to plan.
At breakfast she brushed hair from my forehead.
At lunch she showed me flower arrangements.
At dinner she discussed vows.
Every touch became evidence of something I couldn't name.
Not entirely fake.
Not entirely real.
Maybe that was the tragedy.
I believed Arya had loved me once.
I also believed she had reached a point where loving the life attached to me mattered more than loving me.
Three days passed.
Secret therapy continued at the warehouse.
Daniel had obtained a standing frame.
The first session lasted six minutes.
The second twelve.
My left leg showed increasingly consistent activation.
My right remained weaker.
There was no miracle.
No sudden step.
No cinematic moment where I rose from the chair and crossed a room.
Recovery was uglier.
Sweat.
Pain.
Failure.
Repeating one movement fifty times to succeed twice.
I loved every second.
Tessa attended when she could.
Without my case, she had taken overnight shifts at a rehabilitation facility.
She looked increasingly exhausted.
“You need sleep,” I told her.
“So do you.”
“I own the company paying for this warehouse.”
“That doesn't make sleep optional.”
“I can pay you.”
Her expression changed.
“No.”
“For helping.”
“No.”
“Tessa.”
“You hired another aide.”
“Melissa is household care.”
“And I'm what?”
The question stopped me.
Friend?
Investigator?
Former caregiver?
The woman I trusted more than my fiancée?
“Part of the team.”
She folded her arms.
“That's corporate language for ‘I don't know.’”
“Fine. You're the person who found the document.”
“That sounds worse.”
I laughed.
Our eyes met.
Something lingered.
Then Daniel called me back to the standing frame.
Neither of us discussed it.
That afternoon, Frank brought the first security discovery.
The deleted footage from the shooting night could not be recovered from the mansion's main system.
But Dominic had made a mistake.
A camera at Pier Seven wasn't connected to our central server.
It belonged to a neighboring cold-storage company.
And it had never stopped recording.
Frank obtained the archive through the owner.
We watched it in the warehouse.
Timestamp: 8:41 p.m.
The night I was shot.
Rain streaked the camera.
My SUV arrived.
I exited.
Two men from operations entered the warehouse ahead of me.
Then Dominic's car appeared.
He had told police he was at a restaurant across town.
The footage showed his car clearly.
It remained for eleven minutes.
Then left.
At 9:03, I walked across the loading yard.
The angle didn't capture the shooter.
At 9:04, workers ran into frame.
At 9:06, emergency lights appeared.
Dominic's car had left fourteen minutes before the shooting.
“That doesn't prove anything,” Arthur said.
Sal exploded.
“He lied to police!”
“It proves he lied about being there. It does not prove involvement in the shooting.”
I watched the screen again.
“Go back.”
Frank rewound.
“Stop.”
8:46.
A figure approached Dominic's car.
Umbrella.
Dark coat.
Face hidden.
They leaned into the passenger window.
Thirty seconds later, they walked away.
“Can you enhance it?”
“Maybe.”
Frank enlarged the frame.
Pixelation.
Blur.
Nothing.
Tessa leaned closer.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“The bag.”
The person carried a shoulder bag.
Small.
Brown.
Nothing remarkable.
Then I remembered.
Lena Ortiz.
Dominic's assistant.
She always carried a brown leather messenger bag.
It had been a gift from her mother.
I had teased her about refusing to replace it even when one strap broke.
“Find Lena,” I said.
Arthur sighed.
“We're trying.”
“Try harder.”
Two hours later, we received another clue.
Frank checked building access records from Pier Seven.
Lena's badge entered the administrative wing at 8:32.
She never logged out.
“Could be her,” Tessa said.
“Could.”
“What was she doing there?”
“No idea.”
Sal stared at the monitor.
“Why did she resign twelve days later?”
No one answered.
The next morning, Arya received a package.
Frank notified me through our new secure phone.
Delivered by courier.
Legal envelope.
Arya took it directly to her office.
Twenty minutes later, she called Dominic.
The decoy microphone in the hall captured only fragments.
“…can't find her…”
“…if Lena talks…”
“…you said she was handled…”
Frank replayed it twice.
My skin went cold.
Handled.
That word could mean anything.
Paid.
Threatened.
Moved.
Silenced.
Arthur wanted police immediately.
This time I agreed.
But quietly.
We contacted Detective Nora Hayes, who had originally investigated my shooting.
She met us after midnight at the warehouse.
Forty-seven.
Short dark hair.
No patience for wealthy men conducting amateur investigations.
She looked at the documents.
The footage.
The forged succession draft.
Northstar ownership.
The deleted archive.
Then looked at me.
“You should've called three days ago.”
“Probably.”
“Three weeks ago.”
“I didn't know three weeks ago.”
“You knew someone forged your signature.”
“I wanted evidence.”
“You're not Batman, Mr. Corvino.”
Tessa coughed to hide a laugh.
I stared at her.
“Something funny?”
“Nothing.”
Hayes continued.
“We can reopen lines of inquiry. Quietly.”
“Dominic?”
“We don't arrest people because their car appears near a crime scene.”
“He lied.”
“That interests me.”
“Lena?”
“Also interesting.”
“Can you find her?”
“We already tried after the shooting. She left Massachusetts.”
“Where?”
“Last known credit-card use was in Vermont.”
“When?”
“Five months ago.”
“Then nothing?”
“Nothing under her name.”
Tessa shifted.
“Maybe she's scared.”
Hayes looked at her.
“Likely.”
I leaned forward.
“Can you protect her?”
“If we find her and she cooperates.”
There was something in the detective's expression.
“You think Dominic was involved.”
“I think your shooting made several people extraordinarily rich if their plan works.”
“That's not an answer.”
“It is from a detective.”
She gathered the files.
“Do not confront anyone.”
“I won't.”
“Do not set traps.”
I said nothing.
Hayes pointed at me.
“That silence worries me.”
After she left, Tessa looked at me.
“You're setting a trap.”
“Maybe.”
“What kind?”
“The kind Dominic can't resist.”
I called him the next morning.
“I've decided to sign the harbor transfer.”
Silence.
Then controlled relief.
“Good.”
“One condition.”
“What?”
“I want the closing here.”
“At the house?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I can't exactly stroll into downtown.”
“We can arrange remote signing.”
“No.”
I softened my voice.
“I want to feel involved again, Dom.”
That did it.
He shifted into sympathetic-friend mode.
“Of course.”
“Bring everyone.”
“Who?”
“Northstar representatives. Attorneys. Anyone with an interest.”
Another pause.
He couldn't bring the real owners because he was one of them.
“Some investors value privacy.”
“Then they don't get my property.”
“I'll figure it out.”
“I know.”
We set the signing for four days later.
The microphones heard everything.
Arya became almost euphoric.
She spent the afternoon making wedding calls.
That evening, she entered wearing the gold gown from a fitting.
The dress glittered beneath the chandelier.
“You like it?”
“You look beautiful.”
For once, that wasn't a lie.
She stood behind my wheelchair and looked at us in the mirror.
A perfect couple.
If you ignored everything beneath the surface.
“Soon all of this will be behind us,” she whispered.
“What will?”
She smiled.
“The hard part.”
I met her reflection.
I wondered whether she meant my injury.
Or me.
Later that night, Frank called.
“The cold-storage camera gave us another vehicle.”
“What vehicle?”
“Seven minutes after Dominic leaves, before you're shot.”
He sent the frame.
A gray pickup entered the service road.
License plate partially visible.
Police had never known it was there.
Frank ran the plate.
Registered owner:
Mason Trent.
The name meant nothing to me.
It meant something to Detective Hayes.
Her voice changed when I told her.
“Mason Trent did contract security work for Dominic Russo's private properties.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Where is he?”
“No known address.”
“Criminal record?”
“Assault. Illegal weapons charge dismissed. Several arrests.”
“And he worked for Dominic.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Up until two weeks after your shooting.”
Then he vanished too.
Two people connected to Dominic had disappeared immediately after I was shot.
Lena Ortiz.
Mason Trent.
One might have known too much.
The other might have done too much.
The following morning, Detective Hayes called again.
“We found Lena.”
I sat upright.
“Where?”
“New Hampshire.”
“Is she safe?”
“For the moment.”
“Will she talk?”
A pause.
“She says she'll talk to only one person.”
“Who?”
Hayes exhaled.
“You.”
May you like
And suddenly, the woman who might know what happened the night I lost my legs was waiting less than two hours away.
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