A wave of whispers swept through the crowd. Some guests recoiled; others glared at him as if he’d come to disrupt the proceedings out of sheer chaos. Preston just stared, his breath caught in his chest. The boy reached the coffin and fell to his knees, his palms flat on the polished wood.
“My name is Jace Rowley,” he said. His breathing was ragged. “I know what happened to Talia. I saw the truth. She’s not gone.”
Security moved toward him, but Preston slowly raised a hand.
—Let him speak.
Jace swallowed. His voice stabilized enough for him to continue.
“I was behind the club that night. I saw a man dragging her into the alley. He gave her an injection. I thought maybe he was helping her until I saw her body go limp. She was alive, but barely breathing. He left her lying on the pavement because he thought no one was watching.”
Murmurs swept through the room. Preston felt a cold dread rise in his chest.
Jace continued.
