Chapter 19 Blood Diamond Proposal

# Chapter 19: Blood Diamond Proposal

The first public trial in what the media had dubbed "The Albert Network" began on a rainy Tuesday, six months after Albert Friedrich's arrest. The defendant wasn't Albert himself—his case remained mired in pretrial motions and psychiatric evaluations—but a federal judge identified in the leather handbook as a key facilitator for the trafficking operations. The courtroom was packed with reporters, the hallways outside lined with protesters holding signs demanding justice for the victims.

I sat in the back row, deliberately inconspicuous despite being partly responsible for the proceedings. Over the past months, I'd adopted a new appearance—neither Cynthia Zhang nor Claire Fontaine, but someone between the two. My hair was its natural black again, though cut in a simple bob. I wore minimal makeup, no longer needing to conceal or enhance. The surgical scars remained visible, but they no longer defined me.

Beside me sat Elliot, equally transformed from the silent, watchful boy I'd first encountered. Regular therapy and freedom from his father's household had allowed him to reclaim his voice in both literal and figurative ways. He now spoke with increasing confidence, though he still carried his notebook for times when words failed him.

"Nervous?" he asked quietly as the bailiff called the court to order.

"Not nervous," I replied. "Just... aware of the significance."

This first trial would set the tone for dozens to follow. The prosecution's case relied heavily on evidence we had provided—financial records from the handbook, testimony from victims we had helped locate, connections we had mapped between seemingly disparate crimes.

We weren't official witnesses in this particular proceeding, but our presence had been requested by the prosecution team as a silent acknowledgment of our contribution. In the months since the handbook's discovery, we had become unofficial consultants to the multi-agency task force dismantling the network—our unique insider perspective proving invaluable to investigators still struggling to comprehend the scope of the conspiracy.

As opening statements began, my phone vibrated with a text from Agent Lam: "W requesting urgent meeting. Claims new information about mother's remains. Legitimate?"

Winton Pierce had been relatively cooperative since his arrest, providing context and clarification for handbook entries in exchange for the negotiated terms of his plea agreement. But he remained selective in his disclosures, clearly keeping certain information in reserve as bargaining chips for future negotiations.

"What is it?" Elliot whispered, noticing my expression.

I showed him the message. "Winton wants to meet. Says he has information about Madeline's remains."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Be careful. He's still playing games."

"I know." I replied to Lam, agreeing to the meeting but insisting on her presence and proper security protocols.

We stayed through the morning session, listening as prosecutors methodically outlined the judge's role in dismissing cases against network members and placing trafficking victims into deportation proceedings. The evidence was damning, the narrative clear and compelling. This wouldn't be a difficult conviction.

By afternoon, we slipped out during a recess, heading to the federal detention center where Winton awaited his eventual sentencing. Unlike our previous meeting, this one would take place in an official interview room with recording devices and Agent Lam present throughout. Winton's days of private manipulation were over.

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He looked considerably diminished since I'd last seen him—thinner, grayer, the immaculate grooming that had once been his trademark now reduced to prison-standard neatness. Yet his eyes remained sharp, calculating even in defeat.

"Ms. Zhang," he greeted me with a slight nod. "Thank you for coming."

"You claimed to have information about Madeline Pierce's remains," I replied, bypassing pleasantries. "I'm listening."

Winton glanced at Agent Lam, then back to me. "What I have to share is somewhat... sensitive. Personal rather than evidential."

"Everything in this room is recorded," Lam stated flatly. "That's non-negotiable."

He sighed but nodded acceptance. "Very well. Ms. Zhang, during the excavation of Madeline's remains from under the boat house, forensics recovered most of her personal effects. Her wedding ring, however, was missing."

I maintained a neutral expression, uncertain where this was leading. "And?"

"Albert took it," Winton continued. "After he killed her. He kept it as some sort of... trophy or insurance. I discovered this years later but couldn't acknowledge knowing about her death."

"Why are you telling me this now?" I asked.

Winton leaned forward slightly. "Because he had it modified. Turned into something else. And I believe you may have encountered it without realizing its significance."

A cold suspicion began forming. "What did he do with the ring?"

"He had the diamond removed and reset into a piece he occasionally 'gifted' to people who posed potential threats—a way of maintaining a psychological advantage, knowing they were unwittingly wearing evidence of his greatest crime."

The implication was clear, and sickening. "Victoria Kang," I said quietly. "The diamond earrings."

Winton nodded. "One contained Madeline's diamond. The other was a match created specifically to complete the pair. When Victoria became problematic, he gave her the earrings—his way of silently celebrating his power over women who challenged him."

Agent Lam interjected, "The earrings recovered from Ms. Kang's apartment are in evidence. We can verify this claim."

But I was already connecting more disturbing dots. "The listening device I planted was in Victoria's earrings. The ones Albert gave her."

"Precisely," Winton confirmed. "You unwittingly used my wife's diamond to spy on her killer. There's a certain poetry to it, don't you think?"

His attempt at philosophical musing disgusted me. "Is this information actually relevant to the investigation, or just your idea of macabre conversation?"

"It's relevant because there were others," he replied, expression hardening. "Albert had at least three pieces of jewelry made from that diamond over the years, gifted to different women who later met unfortunate ends. If you can locate those pieces, you'll find additional DNA evidence connecting him directly to Madeline's murder."

Agent Lam was already making notes. "We'll need names, descriptions of the jewelry, approximate dates."

Winton provided these details with the detached precision of an accountant rather than a widower discussing his murdered wife's remains. His clinical approach only emphasized what I had come to understand about him over months of investigation—Winton Pierce had never loved Madeline. He had married her for social advancement, then chosen power and wealth over justice when she was killed.

As the interview concluded, I had one final question. "Why did you keep evidence of her murder all these years if you never intended to use it against Albert?"

For the first time, something like genuine emotion flickered across Winton's face. "Insurance. Albert knew I had evidence against him; I knew he had evidence against me. Mutually assured destruction kept us both in line."

"Until now," I observed.

"Until you," he corrected. "You and Elliot disrupted an equilibrium that had maintained itself for decades. Rather impressive, when you consider the forces arrayed against you."

It wasn't a compliment I cared to accept from a man who had orchestrated my assault and countless other crimes. I stood to leave, but Winton called after me:

"One last thing, Ms. Zhang. When they recover the other jewelry pieces, I'd like Madeline's diamond returned to me eventually. It's the only part of her I have left."

The audacity of the request left me momentarily speechless. This man had helped cover up his wife's murder, had profited from her death, had spent years protecting her killer—and now wanted to claim sentimental ownership of her remains?

"The diamond will be evidence in multiple murder cases," Agent Lam responded professionally. "After that, any decisions about its disposition would involve Madeline's family, not you."

Winton's expression hardened. "I am her family. Her only family."

"No," I said quietly but firmly. "You forfeited that claim when you chose Albert over justice for your wife. Madeline's family is everyone who carried on her work—my father, myself, the investigators who finally found her. You're just the man who betrayed her."

I left without waiting for his response, feeling strangely unburdened. For months I had viewed Winton Pierce as a calculating mastermind—the architect of elaborate legal protections for a criminal network. Now I recognized him as something far more common: a coward who had traded his integrity for comfort and power, then lost everything anyway.

Outside the detention center, Elliot waited in our car, window cracked despite the light rain. "Learn anything useful?" he asked as I slid into the passenger seat.

I relayed Winton's information about Madeline's diamond, watching Elliot's expression shift from interest to disgust.

"He's still manipulating," Elliot observed. "Releasing information in fragments to maintain some sense of control."

"Yes, but this particular fragment might help build the murder case against your father," I pointed out. "DNA evidence on jewelry given to multiple women who later died suspiciously would establish a pattern."

Elliot nodded, though his expression remained troubled. The psychological complexity of pursuing justice against his own father continued to challenge him, despite Albert's monstrous actions. Blood ties created complications that logic couldn't easily resolve.

"There's something else bothering me," I admitted as we drove through rain-slicked streets. "The earrings Albert gave Victoria—I took them. They're what contained our listening device."

"You didn't know their significance."

"No, but I should have questioned why a man like Albert was giving expensive diamond earrings to his mistress right when he was planning to eliminate her. It wasn't a gift; it was a marker. He was tagging her for death, just like the others."

The realization chilled me—how easily I had become an unwitting part of Albert's ritualistic approach to murder. Victoria Kang had been doomed from the moment she accepted those earrings, and I had failed to recognize the pattern in time to save her.

When we reached our apartment—a modest two-bedroom we had rented together after the handbook discovery made continued separation impractical for security reasons—I found a package waiting. The return address showed the FBI forensics lab.

Inside was a small evidence box containing the jade pendant recovered from Madeline's remains, now officially released to me as her family friend's daughter. Accompanying it was a detailed forensic report confirming what we already knew—the pendant was one half of a matched pair, the other presumably still with my mother's remains.

"What will you do with it?" Elliot asked as I held the pendant in my palm.

"Wear it," I said simply. "Carry forward what they started."

He nodded in understanding, then hesitated before retrieving something from his desk drawer—a small velvet box that he placed beside the pendant.

"I've been waiting for the right moment to give you this," he said, uncharacteristically nervous. "It's not... it's not what it might look like at first."

Curious, I opened the box to find a ring—platinum band with a modest diamond, elegant in its simplicity.

"Elliot..."

"It's not a proposal," he clarified quickly. "At least, not the traditional kind. It's a promise ring—my promise to stand with you through whatever comes next, whether that's as partners, friends, or... something we haven't defined yet."

The gesture touched me deeply. Over the months of working together, our relationship had evolved into something neither of us had anticipated—a connection built on shared trauma but transcending it, moving toward something healthier and more hopeful.

"Where did the diamond come from?" I asked, suddenly wary after the conversation with Winton.

"Ethically sourced," he assured me with a small smile. "I researched extensively. It's from a Canadian mine with verified labor practices and environmental standards. I wanted to be certain it carried no hidden history."

The thoughtfulness of this detail—his awareness of how important clean provenance would be to me after everything we'd uncovered—moved me more than the gift itself.

"It's beautiful," I said softly, slipping it onto my right hand rather than the left—acknowledging the non-traditional nature of his promise. "And yes, I accept whatever this is between us, however it evolves."

He looked relieved, then serious again. "I've been thinking about what happens when these trials are over. When the network is fully dismantled. We've both been defined by this fight for so long—what comes after?"

It was the question we had both been circling for months, neither quite ready to articulate future plans while still immersed in resolving the past.

"I've been offered a position with the FBI's anti-trafficking task force," I revealed. "Not as an agent, but as a civilian consultant. They want someone who understands both the victim perspective and the operational structures."

Elliot nodded thoughtfully. "You'd be good at that. Using what happened to help others."

"What about you? Columbia's offer still stands?" Several universities had expressed interest in Elliot's mathematical abilities once his educational background was properly assessed.

"Yes, but I'm more interested in the research position at the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Using data analytics to identify trafficking patterns before they result in victimization."

We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, both contemplating these potential futures—paths that would use our hard-won knowledge to prevent others from suffering similar fates. There was something healing in the possibility of transformation, of reclaiming our experiences as sources of specialized insight rather than merely trauma to be overcome.

"We could do both," I suggested finally. "My FBI consultation would be part-time. Your research position as well. We could still work together on the Albert cases until they're completed."

"Partners," he said, testing the word.

"In whatever form that takes," I agreed, touching the ring on my finger. "No definitions required yet."

Later that evening, as rain continued pattering against our windows, I added Madeline's jade pendant to a simple chain alongside my mother's locket—physical reminders of the women whose courage had initiated the journey that had ultimately led to justice. Between them, I placed the promise ring Elliot had given me, the three pieces forming a tangible connection between past and future.

Whatever came next, I would face it carrying both the wisdom of those who had gone before and the support of someone who truly understood the path I had traveled. For the first time since my assault, I found myself planning beyond vengeance, beyond justice, toward something that felt remarkably like a future.

The trials would continue. Albert Friedrich and his network would face legal consequences for their crimes. The work of dismantling decades of corruption would require years of sustained effort. But alongside that necessary conclusion to one chapter, another was beginning—undefined, unwritten, but undeniably full of possibility.