Chapter 4 - Digital Evidence & Premeditation
By two o'clock in the morning, the burn unit had settled into a quiet, hum of monitors and running pumps. My face was coated in thick silver sulfadiazine cream and wrapped in sterile gauze, leaving only my right eye and lips exposed. The pain was no longer sharp; it had morphed into a deep, throbbing ache that pulsed in sync with my heartbeat.
Detective Miller sat in a vinyl chair beside my bed, an open notebook resting on his knee. Greer stood behind him, arms crossed, like an unyielding sentinel.
"Ms. Ward," Miller said gently, "I need to ask you about the days leading up to this wedding. Did you have any disputes with your sister? Any financial entanglements?"
I swallowed against the dry scratch in my throat. "Fallon doesn’t do entanglements. She does demands. Six months ago, she asked me to co-sign an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar construction loan for a house she and Evan couldn't afford in the Hamptons. I ran the numbers. Their debt-to-income ratio was catastrophic. I said no."
Miller jotted down a note. "How did she react?"
"She told me I was dead to her," I said honestly. "Then our mother called and said I was being selfish, that Fallon’s image as an influencer required a flagship property to land brand deals. I still refused."
"And the wedding?"
"She went silent for four months. Then, three weeks ago, she invited me out of nowhere. She insisted I attend. My mother called three days ago to tell me what dress to wear." I gestured weakly toward the ruined silk hanging in a biohazard bag by the door. "The cream silk dress."
Miller looked up, his brow furrowing. "Your mother told you to wear that specific dress?"
"Yes. She said it was for 'balance' in the photos."
Greer stepped forward, setting her phone on the small rolling tray. "Detective, you need to see this. While Sloan was in surgery having her cornea cleared, I did some digging through Evan Mercer’s production company filings."
Miller leaned in.
"Evan didn't hire a wedding videographer," Greer explained, scrolling through public state filings and production databases. "He registered a limited liability company called *Vows & Vendettas LLC* two months ago. It was pitched to an independent digital distribution platform as a reality-television pilot. The logline? 'A high-society family torn apart by rivalry and explosive confrontations at a luxury wedding.'"
Miller’s jaw clenched. "They were filming a sizzle reel."
"Not just a sizzle reel," Greer said, her voice shaking with rage. "They sold the distribution rights conditionally. The contract had an escalation clause: an extra fifty thousand dollars if the confrontation generated organic viral engagement on social media within twenty-four hours of filming."
Just then, Miller’s partner, Detective Hayes, appeared at the door of the hospital room, holding a clear evidence bag containing an iPhone and a printout of text logs.
"Miller," Hayes said, signaling him out into the hallway. "You need to see this right now. We impounded Evan Mercer’s laptop and Fallon’s personal phone under the emergency warrant. We found the order history."
Miller stepped outside, but he didn't close the door all the way. In the quiet corridor, every word carried clearly.
"Three days ago," Hayes told Miller, "an overnight delivery was made to Fallon Ward’s Manhattan apartment from an unlicensed compounding pharmacy in New Jersey. The product was eight ounces of professional-grade 70% trichloroacetic acid, ordered under the name of her makeup artist."
"Did the makeup artist know?"
"No. Fallon used the girl's corporate account credentials without her knowledge. And Miller? Look at the text exchange between Fallon and Evan from yesterday afternoon."
I held my breath from the bed, listening.
Hayes read directly from the transcript:
*Evan: 'Are you sure this won't leave a mark? If she sues, we lose everything.'*
*Fallon: 'It’s just an exfoliant. It’ll make her face bright red, she’ll scream, she’ll look crazy on camera, and the footage will go insane. By tomorrow morning, everyone will think she threw a tantrum because she’s jealous of my wedding. She won’t sue. Mom will make sure she keeps her mouth shut to protect the family.'*
The silence in the hospital room felt suffocating.
I closed my eye. For thirty-four years, I had believed Fallon was merely selfish, vain, and spoiled. I had treated her like a spoiled child who simply needed boundaries.
She hadn't just thrown a drink.
May you like
She had calculated the cost of my skin against the price of her fame, and she had decided the trade was worth it.
***
