The call came at 6:47 AM on a Tuesday morning.
I was already awake. I have barely slept since the prison visit a few days ago. Damien's penthouse was too quiet, too empty, too full of ghosts. I'd spent the night on the couch, reviewing my dad's recorded testimony over and over.
When my phone rang with an unknown number, my first instinct was not to answer. But something made me pick up.
"Is this Elena Castellano?"
"Yes. Who is this?"
"This is Warden Patricia Monroe from the Correctional Institution. I'm calling about your father, Vincent Castellano."
My stomach dropped. "What happened? Is he okay?"
"I'm very sorry to inform you that your father was found dead in his cell early this morning."
The room tilted. I gripped the edge of the coffee table to steady myself. "What? No. No"
"It appears to be suicide. He was found hanging from a bedsheet attached to the cell bars. I'm so sorry for your loss."
"Suicide?" The word came out sharp, disbelieving.
"He was discovered during the 6 AM cell check. But based on the medical examiner's preliminary assessment, he'd been deceased for several hours. Likely since sometime between midnight and 2 AM."
"I want to see him."
"Of course. You can come to the facility and we'll arrange"
"No. I want to see him now. I want to see his body before anyone else touches it." My voice was rising, panic and fury mixing together. "I'm coming there right now."
"Ms. Castellano, I understand you're upset, but there are procedures"
"I don't care about procedures! My father is dead!" I was shouting now. "I'm coming to see him. Don't move him. Don't touch anything. I'm on my way."
I hung up before she could respond.
For a moment, I just sat there, phone in my hand, trying to process what I'd just heard. My father was dead. Suicide, they said. But I knew with absolute certainty that it wasn't suicide.
My dad was dead because I'd made him talk. Because I'd been stupid enough to think I could investigate a US Senator without consequences.
This was my fault.
I stood up, grabbing my jacket and keys, and nearly collided with Damien in the hallway.
"Elena? What's wrong?" He was in pajama pants and a t-shirt, hair disheveled from sleep, eyes instantly alert at the sight of my face.
"My father." My voice broke. "He's dead. They say it's suicide but it's not"
"Slow down." Damien took my shoulders gently. "What happened?"
"The prison called. They found my dad hanging in his cell. They're saying suicide but I know it's not. I know it's murder." Tears were streaming down my face now. "I have to go. I have to see him."
"Okay. I'll come with you."
"No. I need to do this alone."
"Elena, you're in shock. You shouldn't drive. Let me take you." His voice was calm, steady, everything I wasn't. "Please."
I wanted to argue, to push him away, to handle this by myself like I'd been handling everything. But the truth was I was shaking so hard I could barely stand, and the thought of driving to the prison alone made me feel sick.
"Okay," I whispered.
Damien grabbed his keys and a jacket, and within minutes we were in his car, speeding toward the facility. I called Sarah on the way, my hands trembling so badly I could barely hold the phone.
"Elena? It's early"
"My father's dead." The words came out flat, emotionless. "They found him hanging in his cell this morning."
"Oh my God. Elena, I'm so sorry."
"It wasn't suicide." My voice was rising again, hysteria creeping in. "This is my fault."
"No. Listen to me. This is not your fault. This is Brighton tying up loose ends." Sarah's voice was firm. "Your father was always in danger once he started talking. This was inevitable."
"Elena, you need to listen to me very carefully." Sarah's tone shifted, and became urgent. "If Brighton killed your father to silence him, that means he knows about the recording. Which means you're in danger too."
I hadn't even thought of that. The panic that had been simmering erupted into full-blown terror. "Oh God."
"Where are you right now?"
"On my way to the prison. I need to see him."
"Okay. Go. But Elena, after that, you need to be very careful. Don't go anywhere alone. Don't trust anyone. And we need to move faster on this investigation. Before Brighton can eliminate anyone else."
"Okay." I was gasping, trying to breathe normally. "I'll call you after."
"I'm so sorry about your father. Really. But we're going to make Brighton pay for this. I promise you that."
I ended the call and pressed my forehead against the cold window. Damien drove in silence, giving me space to fall apart. I was grateful for that. I didn't want comfort. I didn't want platitudes. I just wanted to scream.
The prison was in lockdown when we arrived. Extra guards everywhere, police investigating, the medical examiner's van in the parking lot.
Warden Monroe met me at the entrance. "Ms. Castellano. I'm very sorry for your loss."
"Where is he?"
"The medical examiner is with him now, but"
"I want to see him."
"I understand, but this is an active investigation"
"He's my father." My voice came out hard, unyielding. "You called me. You told me he's dead. Now I want to see him."
The warden exchanged glances with one of the guards, then nodded. "Follow me."
She led me through the facility to the medical unit. Damien tried to come with me, but security stopped him. "Family only."
I went alone.
My dad was on a metal gurney, covered with a white sheet. The medical examiner, a middle-aged man with glasses, looked up when I entered.
"Ms. Castellano? I'm Dr. Harris. I'm very sorry about your father."
"Can I see him?"
"Of course. But I should warn you, the sight may be distressing."
"I don't care."
Dr. Harris pulled back the sheet.
My dad's face was purple, eyes bulging, tongue protruding slightly. The ligature marks around his neck were deep, brutal. His hands had scratches on them defensive wounds, maybe, or signs of a struggle.
This wasn't suicide. I knew it in my bones.
"How long has he been dead?" I asked, my voice surprisingly steady.
"Based on rigor mortis and lividity, I'd estimate between six and eight hours, sometime between midnight and 2 AM, as the warden mentioned."
"And you're ruling this a suicide?"
Dr. Harris hesitated. "The preliminary findings suggest self-inflicted hanging. The ligature was a bedsheet tied to the cell bars. The positioning is consistent with"
"What about the defensive wounds on his hands?"
"Those could be from the victim attempting to save himself after the act. It's common in hanging cases for there to be signs of struggle as the survival instinct kicks in."
"Or they could be from someone else attacking him."
Dr. Harris's expression became carefully neutral. "Ms. Castellano, I understand you're grieving. But there's no evidence of foul play. Your father was alone in his cell. The door was locked from the outside. There's no way someone else could have"
"Guards have keys."
"Ms. Castellano"
"Did anyone see him between the bed check and when he was found?" I demanded. "Were there any visitors to his cell?"
"The investigation is ongoing. I can't comment on"
"So there were." I looked at the warden, who'd been standing silently by the door. "Someone went into his cell last night. Who was it?"
"Ms. Castellano, I really can't discuss the details of an ongoing investigation."
"My father was murdered. You know it. I know it. The only question is whether you're going to admit it or cover it up."
The warden's face hardened. "That's a serious accusation."
"And my father's death is a serious crime." I turned back to his body.
I pulled out my phone and started taking pictures of his body, the ligature marks, the defensive wounds on his hands, everything.
"Ms. Castellano, you can't"
"He's my father. I'm documenting his condition. Is that illegal?"
The warden looked like she wanted to argue but thought better of it. "No. It's not illegal."
I took as many photos as I could from every angle, my hands remarkably steady despite the tears streaming down my face. When I was done, I put my phone away and looked at him one more time.
"I'm sorry, Papa," I whispered. "I'm sorry I pushed you. I'm sorry I got you killed. But I promise I'm going to finish this. I'm going to make Brighton pay for what he did to you."
Dr. Harris and the warden exchanged uncomfortable glances but said nothing.
I pulled the sheet back over Vincent's face myself. Then I turned and walked out without another word.
Damien was waiting in the hallway. He took one look at my face and pulled me into his arms. I didn't resist. I just stood there, letting him hold me while I tried to remember how to breathe.
"It was murder," I said into his chest. He didn't kill himself."
"I believe you."
We stood like that for a long moment. Then I pulled away, wiping my eyes. "I need to get out of here."
"Okay. Let's go."
The next few days were a blur of bureaucratic nightmares.
The prison released his body to a funeral home after the medical examiner completed his report. Official cause of death: suicide by hanging. No evidence of foul play.
I tried to get an independent autopsy, but the funeral director informed me that by the time all the paperwork was processed, the body had already been released and prepared for burial. "I'm very sorry, Ms. Castellano."
It was too convenient. Too fast. Too clean.
Brighton's people had made sure there would be no evidence.
I met with Sarah the day after his death. She'd found a small law office where we could talk privately.
"I'm so sorry, Elena." She hugged me when I arrived. "This is horrible."
"It's murder. They're calling it suicide, but it's murder."
"I know. And I'm going to help you prove it." Sarah pulled up a chair. "But first, we need to talk about what this means for the investigation."
"It means Brighton is eliminating witnesses. It means he knows we're coming for him."
"Exactly. Which means we need to move faster. We need to take what we have your father's recording, all of it and go public before Brighton can kill anyone else."
"Go public how?"
"Media. A major news outlet that can't be intimidated. Someone with the resources to protect themselves and their sources." Sarah pulled up something on her laptop. "I have contacts at several major newspapers. If we give them the recording and the evidence, they'll run with it. Brighton won't be able to suppress it."
"And if he tries to kill me too?"
"That's why we need to be smart about this. We release everything at once to multiple outlets. We make it impossible for Brighton to stop the story. And we make sure you're protected while it's happening."
"Protected how? He killed my father in a federal prison. If he can get to someone there, he can get to anyone."
"Which is why you need to disappear for a while. Go somewhere safe. Let me handle the media coordination." Sarah's eyes were intense. "Elena, I know this is terrifying. But your father died giving you this information. Don't let his death be for nothing."
She was right. I knew she was right. But the thought of hiding, of running, made me feel sick.
"I'm not going to run. I'm not going to hide like my mother did."
"It's not running. It's being strategic. We can't fight Brighton if you're dead."
"Fine. But I'm not leaving the city. And I'm going to the funeral."
"Elena"
"He's my father. I'm going to bury him. And if Brighton wants to try something there, let him try." My voice was hard. "I'm done being afraid."
Sarah looked like she wanted to argue but nodded instead. "Okay. But please, at least let me arrange some security. Private security, people we can trust."
"Fine."
"And after the funeral, we move forward immediately. We release everything. We take Brighton down."
"Yes." I met her eyes. "No more delays. No more caution. We destroy him."
Sarah smiled grimly. "That's what I wanted to hear."
The funeral was three days later.
It was small, grim, poorly attended. A few distant relatives who felt obligated and some old business associates who wanted to be seen.
I stood at the graveside in a black dress Damien had bought for me, watching as they lowered my father into the ground.
Damien stood beside me, silent and solid. He'd been staying close ever since my father's death, and I was grateful for it. I felt like I was made of glass, one wrong move away from shattering completely.
The priest said something about eternal rest and forgiveness. I didn't listen. I was thinking about my dad's last words to me: I'm tired, Elena. So tired of carrying this.
Well, he didn't have to carry it anymore.
Now I was carrying it alone.
The service ended. People drifted away, muttering condolences that meant nothing. Damien touched my arm. "I'll give you a minute. I'll be in the car."
I nodded, and he left.
I stood alone at my father's grave, staring down at the freshly turned earth.
"You were a coward," I said quietly. "You let people die to save yourself. You covered up murders for money and power. You chose convenience over courage."
"But you were also my father. And you loved me. Both of those things are true."
I knelt down and placed my hand on the cold earth.
"I'm going to finish this, Papa. I'm going to expose Brighton. I'm going to make him pay for what he did to you, to the Cross family, to all of them." Tears rolled down my cheeks. "And maybe that doesn't erase what you did. Maybe it doesn't make up for your sins. But at least it means your death wasn't for nothing."
I stood up, wiping my eyes.
"Goodbye, Papa. I hope you've found peace."
I turned to leave and nearly ran into someone standing a few feet behind me.
A man. Middle-aged, expensive suit, cold eyes. I'd never seen him before, but there was something familiar about him. Something that made my skin crawl.
"Ms. Castellano. My condolences on your loss."
"Who are you?"
"A friend of your father's. I just wanted to pay my respects."
"He doesn't have any friends. Not anymore."
The man smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. "You're grieving. Understandable. But grief can make people do foolish things. Make accusations they can't prove. Pursue vendettas that only lead to more tragedy."
My blood ran cold. "Are you threatening me?"
"Not at all. Just offering friendly advice." He stepped closer. "Your father made mistakes. But he paid for them. Sometimes it's best to let the dead rest in peace."
"And what if I don't?"
"Then you might find yourself in a situation similar to your mother's. Or worse." His smile widened slightly. "Have a nice day, Ms. Castellano. And remember accidents can happen to anyone."
He walked away before I could respond, disappearing among the gravestones.
I stood there shaking, watching him go. When he was out of sight, I called Sarah.
"They just threatened me. At my father's funeral. One of Brighton's people."
"Did you get a name?"
"No. But I got his face." I pulled up my phone's camera. I'd taken a photo when he wasn't looking, just instinct. "I'm sending it to you now. Find out who he is."
"Will do. Are you okay?"
"No. But I'm done being scared." I looked back at his grave one more time. "Let's release everything. Tonight. I want Brighton to know I'm coming for him."
"Elena, are you sure? Once we do this, there's no going back."
"I'm sure. My father's dead. My mother is in hiding. Brighton had his way for thirty years. It's time to end this."
"Okay. I'll set up meetings with the journalists. We'll coordinate a simultaneous release across multiple platforms." Sarah's voice was excited now. "This is it, Elena. We're really doing this."
"Yes. We are."
I hung up and walked back to where Damien was waiting by the car.
As we drove away from the cemetery, I looked back one last time at Vincent's grave. My father was gone. But his testimony lived on in that recording.
And I was going to make sure the world heard it.
Even if it killed me.
Because some truths were worth dying for.
And this was one of them.