Page 76 of Corrupting Camille
The phone creaks in my hand. Cracks spider through the glass from how hard I’m holding it. I don’t even feel it.
My vision is blurred by rain on the windows, but it might as well be blood.
Because this isn’t just hers anymore.
Her ghosts are mine now.
And the man who put them there?
I’m going to find him.
And when I do?
I’m going to tear him apart so completely the only thing left will be the silence he gave her.
***
Joaquin texts at 2:03 a.m.
It’s done. Check your inbox.
I don’t sleep. I don’t pace. I sit in my penthouse with the lights off, soaked clothes long since discarded, a glass of bourbon in my hand and Camille under my skin like a fever I can’t sweat out.
The file hits my inbox seconds later. I open it on my tablet, jaw already tight, muscles strung so high I can feel my heartbeat in my teeth.
I read.
And I read again.
Every log, every social event, every “accidental fall” on a boat. Yacht party manifests, guest lists from Palm Beach to Cannes. Birthday photos. Donor galas. Family vacations. All pristine. All polished. All fake.
And none of it tells me what I need to know.
None of it gives me a name.
The man who pushed her?
The man who hurt her?
Gone. Scrubbed. Buried beneath layers of Sinclair money and legacy.
All I have is a blurry security still from a dock camera taken two weeks after the incident. A faceless group of men in suits walking off the family’s yacht. Four men. One boy. None labeled. None identified.
My hands curl into fists so tight I hear the bones in my fingers crack.
I throw the tablet.
It hits the far wall, shatters.
Good.
Because what I feel right now?
It doesn’t belong in a neat little PDF.
I grab my phone, dial Joaquin again.
He answers instantly. Doesn’t breathe. He knows.
