The library had been converted into a makeshift courtroom. A camera on a tripod was pointed at Alistair. Sebastian Cross sat opposite him, holding a microphone.
“state your name for the record,” Cross said.
“Alistair… Croft,” he rasped.
For an hour, Alistair confessed to sins that would put a lesser man away for a thousand years. He detailed the arms deals, the laundering, the shell companies. He took the blame for every decision William had stumbled into, rewriting history to protect his son.
Then came the final question.
“Mr. Croft,” Cross asked, glancing at the medical equipment. “Your physical condition is severe. The toxicology report indicates high levels of *Digitalis*. Did someone administer this to you to keep you quiet?”
In the corner of the room, Lady Beatrice stopped breathing. She clutched her handkerchief, waiting for the police to come for her. She had poisoned him. She had enslaved him.
Alistair shifted his eyes toward Beatrice. He saw her terror. He saw the woman he had broken, who had finally broken him back.
He looked back at the camera.
“I took it… myself,” Alistair lied, his voice steady. “I knew… the creditors were coming. I used the *Digitalis*… to fake a stroke. To hide. My wife… is innocent. She only… cared for me.”
Beatrice let out a silent, racking sob, burying her face in her hands. The monster hadn’t just spared her; he had redeemed her.