CHAPTER 3
The siren blared through the rainy Manhattan night as the convoy of federal vehicles sped toward the downtown precinct under high-security escort.
Inside the rear of the lead armored vehicle, I sat wrapped in a thick wool blanket, sipping warm water while a paramedic checked my oxygen saturation levels.
"Your airways are fully dilated, but the anaphylactic reaction was severe," the paramedic noted gently. "You'll need a full evaluation at Bellevue once we finalize the preliminary statements."
"I'll go to the hospital after I see her," I insisted firmly, looking out the rain-slicked window as flashing red and blue lights painted the concrete skyscrapers.
My mind was spinning in a chaotic whirlwind of shock, horror, and an intense, overwhelming urge to understand the true depth of the Hawthorne family's evil.
For six long years, I believed Lydia Hawthorne had abandoned her marriage and fled to a private villa in France after a bitter divorce settlement.
Adrian had wept in my arms during our early dates, playing the heartbroken victim of an unfaithful, money-hungry ex-wife who stripped him of his dignity.
Now, the horrifying reality slapped me in the face: she hadn't run away; she had been trapped in a windowless subterranean tomb while I lived in her house.
When we arrived at the specialized medical wing of the precinct, Detective Vance escorted me down a quiet, heavily guarded corridor lined with federal marshals.
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He opened the double doors to a private examination room where a fragile, pale woman with long, matted blonde hair sat shivering beneath a thermal blanket.
"Lydia...?" I whispered, my heart slamming against my ribs as I took a tentative, hesitant step into the brightly lit room.
