The Night Damian Royce Locked Every Gate and Opened the One Truth That Could Ruin Him

Now it sat in clear plastic under a detective’s handwriting.

“Who knew your daughter was coming?” Ortiz asked.

“Marcus. His office entered the visit. Peter Sloane may have seen the schedule. Grant’s team could access it.”

“Who is Peter Sloane?”

“My chief operating officer.”

“Where is he?”

“We don’t know.”

That answer changed the room.

Ortiz and Cho searched the corridor, blue sitting room, conference room, guest suite, west stairs, service hall, and the section of garden outside the malfunctioning cameras. The broken heel remained beneath the console table. A technician bagged it. Near the baseboard, Cho found a tiny crescent of green leather.

The missing bag had likely torn during the struggle.

They found no weapon and no obvious blood beyond the mark where Celeste’s cheek had touched the floor.

At three eleven, a security officer reported that Peter Sloane had been located.

He was sitting in the estate chapel.

The chapel had been built by Damian’s grandfather, who attended church twice a year and expected architecture to compensate for the interval. It was small, stone-walled, and cold. Peter sat in the last pew with his coat folded beside him. His hands rested on the polished wood in front of him.

He did not appear surprised when Ortiz entered.

“I wondered how long the west wing search would take,” he said.

“Why didn’t you come when security called?”

“I turned off my phone.”

“Why?”

“I was tired of people asking questions.”

Ortiz sat two pews behind him rather than beside him. “Your colleague’s daughter was attacked.”

“I heard.”

“You were hiding in a chapel.”

“I was sitting in a chapel.”

“Is there a distinction?”

“There usually is.”

Peter Sloane was fifty-eight, narrow-faced, soft-spoken, and so consistently reasonable that people often discovered too late that he had never agreed with them. He had worked beside Damian for thirty-one years. He had negotiated the company’s first major port contract, survived two recessions, and stood at Anne Royce’s funeral with one hand on Damian’s shoulder.

Ortiz asked where he had been at nine thirty-eight.

“Walking from the blue sitting room to the chapel.”

“Why?”

“I needed five minutes alone before leaving.”

“Did you see Celeste Royce?”

“Yes.”

“What did you discuss?”

“Nothing important.”

“She says you asked about her bag.”

Peter’s fingers shifted on the pew. “I asked whether she wanted someone to take it upstairs.”

“She says you told her that her father had already made his choice.”

“That sounds dramatic.”

“Did you say it?”

“I may have.”

“What choice?”

Peter looked toward the altar. “Damian has been considering whether Celeste should join the company board. She believes he has postponed the decision because he doesn’t respect her work.”

“Was that what you meant?”

“Yes.”

Ortiz let the silence remain.

Peter turned slightly. “Am I under arrest?”

“No.”

“Then I would like to go home.”

“We’ll need your clothes.”

He glanced down at his tuxedo. “For what?”

“Elimination testing. Fiber comparison.”

“I did not touch Celeste.”

“Then the clothes will help establish that.”

Peter’s expression changed by less than a smile. “You’re good.”

“I’m tired.”

He stood. “May I call my attorney?”

“You should.”

While Peter spoke to counsel, Cho searched the chapel with consent from the estate’s property manager. Behind a cabinet containing old hymnals, he found a service door. It opened onto a narrow passage used by staff during large events. The passage connected the chapel to the west corridor and the basement laundry.

The door sensor had recorded an opening at nine forty-one.

Peter said he had not used it.

The sensor record did not prove he had.

At four in the morning, Damian returned to the hospital. Celeste was asleep. Dr. Bell sat beside the window eating crackers from a plastic packet.

“You look older,” she told him.

“So do you.”

“I was older before tonight. You were distracted.”

He sat across from her.

“How is she?”

“Concussion. No bleeding. She’ll be miserable for several days and tired for several weeks. Screens, noise, stress, and men asking repetitive questions will make it worse.”

“Can the police speak to her?”

“Briefly, later.”

“Can I?”

“You’re the repetitive man I had in mind.”

Damian rubbed his eyes. Bell folded the empty cracker wrapper into smaller and smaller squares.

“Do you remember Anne’s last morning?” he asked.

She stopped folding.

“Yes.”

“I keep seeing the jam on her hand.”

“Minds keep strange things.”

“I should have known something was wrong.”

“With Anne?”

“With the company.”

Bell looked at Celeste. “Those are different regrets.”

“They feel similar.”

“That does not make them similar.”

He leaned back. The chair squeaked.

Bell placed the folded wrapper on the windowsill. “After Anne died, you became very interested in preventing surprise. New security. New reporting lines. Medical screenings. Drivers. Backup systems. You made uncertainty look like a management defect.”

“It often is.”

“Not always.”

“Is that your medical opinion?”

“No. It’s my opinion as the person who watched your daughter learn not to tell you anything until she had solved it alone.”

Damian’s jaw tightened.

Bell shrugged. “You asked.”

“I did not.”

“You brought up the jam.”

Celeste shifted in bed. Both of them fell silent.

When she woke near dawn, Damian was still there. He had loosened his coat but refused to remove it. The city outside the window had turned from black to a flat gray.

“Did you find Peter?” she asked.

“In the chapel.”

“That’s theatrical.”

“He claims it was private.”

“Peter thinks privacy means nobody can prove what he did.”

“The police are investigating.”