Chapter 6

Logan's POV

I drove to the law office that very afternoon.

The firm was located on the seventh floor of an old commercial building. The hallway was narrow, and the walls were lined with faded licenses.

After verifying my identity, the receptionist, Mia, led me into a small meeting room next to the archive room.

Mr. Davis was waiting for me. His hair was mostly gray, and his eyes locked onto mine the moment I walked in.

"Mr. Vance, the files from back then are still in our database."

Mr. Davis pulled a folder from the cabinet. The label was faded, but Chloe's handwritten signature on the bottom right corner was perfectly clear under the clear tape. The handwriting was thin but steady.

He placed the folder on the table.

Mr. Davis pulled out the apartment transfer agreement first, flipping to the signature page.

"She signed this herself. Her fingerprint is right here."

A red ink fingerprint was pressed firmly onto the paper. My throat tightened as I stared at it.

Then, Mr. Davis pulled out another document.

"She requested we keep this one on file as well."

The cover read: Deed of Gift. I opened it. The text was incredibly short: I hereby donate all proceeds from the sale of my apartment to my husband, Logan Vance, to help him overcome his current financial difficulties.

The date was exactly one week before she went to prison.

When she signed this, she already knew she was going to take the fall and go to jail for me.

My fingers pressed against the paper, trembling for a long time before I could let go.

Mr. Davis waited patiently, reaching out to pack up the files. I brushed his hand away and kept flipping through the folder.

At the very back of the folder, there were a few appended documents. When I reached the final page, my fingers brushed against a photocopy of a newer document. It was kept separately at the back, with a bold header:

Irrevocable Personal Authorization and Release Form.

I looked up.

"What is this?"

Mr. Davis glanced at it.

"A copy for our records. The original is kept at the research laboratory."

"What laboratory?"

"An independent neurological research facility she contacted while she was in prison."

I looked down at the document.

The first section was identity verification.

The second section stated that upon her death, her body would be under the sole custody of the laboratory for irreversible medical and neurological research.

The third section was a limitation of relative rights, with a bolded sentence at the bottom:

No relatives, including spouse, parents, or children, shall have any right to claim the body or make any post-mortem decisions.

My eyes locked onto that sentence.

At that moment, the hum of the air conditioner in the room seemed to vanish.

While she was still in prison, she had completely excluded me from her death. She had given me her apartment, given me seven years of her life, and given me a child. But in the end, she didn't even want to leave a single cell of her body to the Vance family.

I picked up the copy, the paper shaking slightly in my hand.

"Give me the name and address of the laboratory."

Mr. Davis checked his database index, frowning as he scanned the screen.

"The specific name is in another transfer document in our main archives. I can't access it today."

"When can you get it?"

"Tomorrow morning, at the earliest."

Clutching the copy of the deed of gift and the authorization form, I walked out of the law firm.

I sat in the back of my car, placing the two documents on the passenger seat. Outside, the sky was gradually darkening as people rushed in and out of the office building.

I pulled out my phone and messaged my assistant: "Search for all independent laboratories in the country specializing in neurological or brain science research."

My assistant replied almost instantly: "There are three main facilities."

I set my phone down, my gaze falling back on the passenger seat. The bold header of the authorization form peeked out, the paper fluttering slightly in the draft from the window.

By the time I returned to the Vance estate, the night was pitch black.

When I pushed the front door open, the shoe rack looked empty. Chloe's old light-colored slippers were no longer in their usual spot. The bottom shelf of the cabinet had been wiped clean by the maids, looking cold and sterile.

The corner of the sofa by the window was empty too.

Before she went to prison, she used to sit there every night waiting for me to come home, a book resting on her lap.

The moment she heard the door, she would look up and smile.

Later, that corner was replaced with decorative pillows, designer vases, and a light-colored cashmere blanket that Brenda liked.

I walked upstairs and pushed open the guest room door.

Inside the closet, there were only a few empty hangers.

The drawers were completely cleared out, leaving only a faint, dusty ring on the vanity table. That was where her perfume bottle used to sit.

The bottle was slender. She rarely used it, only spraying a little when the Vance family hosted formal dinners. The scent was so light that it would vanish the moment she turned around.

I had never once asked when these things were thrown away.

I stood in the center of the silent room, the ceiling light casting a harsh glare over me. Chloe had lived in this house for seven years, yet the last traces of her existence couldn't even secure the space of a single perfume bottle.

I turned and walked into my study.

The bookshelf lined the wall. On the very bottom shelf, there were a few old leather-bound books. I knelt down, sliding my fingers across the spines. When my fingers brushed against a book with a cracked cover, I felt a slight bulge.

I pulled the book out and opened it.

Tucked inside were several folded sheets of paper. The edges were yellowed and frayed. When I unfolded the first page, I saw tight, delicate handwriting filling the paper.

It was Chloe's handwriting.

The entry was dated during her second year in prison.

She wrote about giving birth to Mason in the prison ward. There were only nurses and guards by her bedside. When the baby let out his first cry, someone wrapped him in a blanket. She reached out to hold him, but the guard told her that the Vance family's representative had already arrived to take the baby.

She begged them for just ten minutes.

The handwriting on the paper grew heavy here, the pen almost ripping through the page.

I just wanted to hold him for ten minutes.

I stared at the words, my fingers gripping the edge of the paper.

The second page talked about the ocean.

Chloe wrote that the coastal town she lived in as a child had a beautiful beach with fine sand that wouldn't hurt a child's bare feet.

She hoped that once she got out of prison, she could take Mason there and let him run around all afternoon. She had even drawn a clumsy little sand shovel in the margin.

The third page was about her diagnosis.

Terminal cancer. The doctor told her she didn't have much time left and urged her to contact her family. She had crossed out that line, writing underneath: No need to trouble them.

The last page had only a few short lines.

I don't want to drag this body back and forth between the prison and the Vance family anymore.

If I can still walk on the day of my release, I just want to see him one last time.

Just one look before I die.

The date was three months before her release.

My thumb pressed against the date, crushing the paper into new creases.