Chapter 40
Chapter 40:
Mrs. Lynch reached into her pocket with trembling hands, pulled out her phone, tapped the screen, and pressed it into Cole’s hands.
“I pulled the security footage from the study,” she said. “Look for yourself p>
Cole looked down at the screen.
The footage was silent, but the image was sharp. It showed a junior maid accidentally leaving the morning mail — the newspaper and the legal envelope — on the edge of the mahogany desk. The footage advanced. It showed June standing at the server. It showed Eleanor walking in, picking up the papers, and collapsing.
Then Cole watched the rest.
He watched June throw herself across the floor to catch his grandmother before her head struck the desk. He watched June tear open Eleanor’s blouse and begin chest compressions. The camera angle was high and unobstructed, offering a perfect view of June’s face. He saw the agony twisting her features. He saw her bite her lip until it bled.
And then he saw the dark patch spreading across her white shirt — growing with every brutal downward thrust of her arms as she fought to keep his grandmother’s heart beating.
Cole stopped breathing.
His pupils dilated. It felt as though an invisible force had driven directly into the center of his chest.
He lowered the phone slowly.
He turned his head and looked at the dried bloodstain on June’s shirt.
𝗝𝘰in 𝘰𝘶𝗿 с𝗈𝗺𝗆𝗎𝗻𝘪𝘁𝗒 𝗼𝗇
Five minutes ago he had mocked her for it. Called it performance. Now that patch of blood looked like a branding iron, burning straight through him. The absolute certainty of his own righteousness fractured, leaving behind a vertiginous, gaping void. Had he accused a dying woman of staging a scene while she was keeping his grandmother alive?
The walls of the hallway seemed to tighten around him. The sterile air turned too thick to breathe. His pulse roared in his ears.
Cole opened his mouth. His throat worked as he swallowed.
“Your…” he began, his voice cracking. He took a hesitant step forward, his hand moving toward her side. “You’re bleeding p>
June took one deliberate half-step backward.
The movement was small. It was also absolute. She avoided his touch with the calm precision of someone who had made a permanent decision.
She looked at him. There was no anger in her eyes. No sadness. Only the quiet, distant look one gives a stranger on a subway platform.
She turned to the housekeeper.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lynch,” June said softly. “Thank you for telling the truth p>
She reached down, picked up her red suit jacket, and draped it over her arm. She turned and walked toward the elevator.
Cole moved. He stepped into her path.
“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice tight. “You need to have that wound looked at p>
June stopped. She tilted her head slightly and looked up at him.
When she spoke, her tone was entirely professional — devoid of warmth, history, or any personal connection whatsoever.