27. Alessia
ALESSIA
T he cursor blinks against a white screen while I sit frozen, index finger hovering above the keyboard. The login screen waits for my credentials, the same ones I’ve used for years. I type them in like it’s any other morning and I’m not about to erase the truth.
That’s what makes it worse. If there were friction—if the system pushed back, stalled, flagged something—it might feel harder to cross the line. But everything responds like it always does. It feels too easy, and that ease makes me sick.
The guilt creeps in quietly, not because I believe my father deserves justice, but because I know how hard I worked to earn this access. I was proud of it once. I believed in rules and records, and now I’m the one dismantling them.
Everything is in place. The histology files are logged.
The toxicology report is clean. The scene photos are labeled, and the autopsy notes are stored in sequence.
I skip to the forensics tab and pull up the DNA record—Chain Sample #84723.
It’s the record tied to the blood under his fingernails.
It’s the same one that pointed straight to my father.
I open the metadata and disable the visibility layer. Then I run a permanent deletion script. It prompts me— Are you sure? —as if this is just any other misfiled sample.
I click Yes .
Then I close my eyes for a second to will away the shame I feel. When I open them, the screen refreshes and the link vanishes. I run two more commands to clear cached data, then wipe the shadow file. All backups are erased. Every reference log and lab flag is deleted.
But that’s not enough. I know the protocols inside and out.
I know how to bury things so deep they’ll never resurface—but it still feels like painting over rot.
I picture what will happen if someone decides to dig anyway.
What if they request an audit? What if someone reopens the case out of spite or curiosity?
What if someone else I trained with starts asking questions I can’t answer without giving myself away?
That fear keeps pushing me, harder than guilt ever could.
So I do more. I rewrite the input fields manually, changing the record type to read, “ Sample degraded. No viable DNA sequence obtained .” Then I scrub the timestamp and inject a false string of lab attempts so it looks like we tried to rerun it.
That’s the part that will get the right eyes off my back.
It won’t trigger any supervisor flags. It won’t get sent up to the magistrate.
When I’m done, I sit back and stare at the empty screen.
My hand drifts to the mouse again, fingers trembling.
I open the print menu and send the modified report to the lab printer.
The hum and whir of the machine feels too loud in the sterile quiet, and I feel accused and judged too.
I pull the paper from the tray, still warm, and skim every word again.
Degraded sample. Secondary attempts unsuccessful. Inconclusive.
I sign it with a trembling hand, and my heart is beating so fast it makes my teeth hurt. I slide the sheet into a folder and head for Records.
The hallway outside is washed in sterile light that feels bright enough to expose everything. I keep my head down and move quickly. I know the security cameras are on so I keep my steps even, and I don’t look around.
Downstairs, I log the file into the central pathology cabinet and sign the transfer register. The nurse at the desk barely glances at me. The nurse doesn’t say anything. No one looks up. I nod once, careful not to draw attention, and turn away with steady steps.
Back in my office, I shut the door and twist the lock, then cross to the desk and open the drawer with the encrypted USB.
I plug it in and access the hidden file structure.
Inside, the folders contain temp logs, timestamped edits, audio clips from the initial exam, and scanned images of handwritten notes.
Everything I used to build the case. Everything that could unravel what I just did.
I delete them all, one folder at a time. The screen flashes with progress bars as each section vanishes. I wipe the drive three times before removing it, wrapping it in a paper towel, and snapping it in half. The metal splinters and the board cracks down the center.
I toss the pieces into the trash can, cover it with files from the recycling bin, and sit at my desk, breathing through my nose. My heart is hammering and I feel like I may start crying any second.
This is it. It's done. I can't undo it, and I can't change my mind now.
I also can't get out of the testimony I'm expected to give in front of the deposition board and Dr. Bernardi, where Detective Sergeant Elena Greco will grill me and I may very well crack.
That thought makes my stomach churn and I want to reach for my phone to call Chiara, just to hear her voice. I'm going to miss her so much.
Instead, I check the burner phone in my jacket pocket. There are no new messages. The screen remains blank.
My task is complete. Now all I have to do is leave and meet up with Enzo and pray everything plays out the way he said it will.
My stomach knots. The tension doesn’t come from guilt. It comes from something worse. Guilt fades over time, lessens as time passes. Fear doesn’t.
If anyone catches this—if anyone traces a single string back to me—I won’t just lose my job. I’ll lose the protection that comes with it and I'll go to prison right alongside hundreds of criminals who will be standing in line next to my cell to punish me.
But if Enzo did his job, then the truth no longer exists in any form—no paper record, no digital file, no official archive, and no shred of physical evidence linking Gordo Costa to the murder.
It exists only in my memory.