Chapter 4 - "What's wrong?"
I closed my eyes.
"Nothing."
Another pause.
"Katharine Bennett."
My throat tightened.
She only used my full name when she knew I was lying.
"Where are you?"
"At a hospital."
I heard her inhale.
"Are you sick?"
"No."
"Did something happen?"
I looked at Marisol.
She nodded gently.
"I hurt my arm."
My mother's breathing changed.
"How badly?"
"It's broken."
A long silence followed.
Then she asked the question that nearly destroyed me.
"Who hurt you?"
I stared at the blanket.
She had not asked how I fell.
She had not asked what I had been carrying.
Somehow, she knew.
"Mom."
"Kate, sweetheart."
Her voice trembled.
"Who?"
I began crying.
And for the first time in fourteen months, I told my mother something difficult without first finding a way to make it sound smaller.
"A man at work."
She made a broken sound.
"Did he touch you?"
"He grabbed me."
"Are you safe now?"
I looked toward the door, where Walken stood outside.
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
I hesitated.
Then I answered honestly.
"I think so."
My mother cried quietly.
I had spent more than a year trying to protect her from every frightening thing in my life.
Now I realized how lonely I had made us both by pretending I was never afraid.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
She stopped me.
"Don't."
"But you're sick."
"And I'm still your mother."
Her voice became firm.
"You don't have to earn the right to need me."
I pressed the phone against my cheek.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
We simply listened to each other breathe.
When the call ended, I felt different.
Not healed.
Not safe.
But less alone.
A message arrived from Saint Vincent's billing department shortly afterward.
My mother's outstanding balance had been settled in full.
A separate charitable grant had been placed against future treatment expenses.
I read the confirmation four times.
Then I handed the phone to Marisol.
She read it.
Her eyes filled.
"Well."
I stared at her.
"He actually did it."
Marisol looked almost offended.
"Of course he did."
I laughed once.
The sound came out broken.
"I've never seen that much money."
She gave the phone back.
"Then perhaps you can stop calculating it for one night."
I wanted to.
But the relief came tangled with dread.
Because someone had just paid enough money to change my entire future.
And I did not know what he might be doing in return.
Shortly after midnight, Damon called.
Marisol answered first.
Then she handed me the phone.
"Kate."
His voice was quieter than I remembered.
"How is your arm?"
"It hurts."
"Good."
I almost laughed.
He corrected himself immediately.
"I mean, thank you for telling me the truth."
I looked down at the bandages.
"The doctor says it should heal."
"It will."
I listened to faint voices behind him.
Men speaking.
A door closing.
Somewhere, a phone rang and stopped.
"Where are you?" I asked.
"At home."
"Is Preston there?"
Silence.
Then Damon said, "Not in the part of the house you're familiar with."
A cold feeling moved through me.
"Did you hurt him?"
He did not answer immediately.
"Kate, I need you to concentrate on recovering."
"That's not what I asked."
Another silence.
Then he said, "No one is going to use your name to justify anything you haven't agreed to."
I stared at the phone.
The answer was careful.
Too careful.
"That isn't the same as saying you won't hurt him."
His breathing remained steady.
"No."
The honesty frightened me.
I shifted against the pillow.
"Mr. Blackwell, I don't want someone disappearing because of me."
His voice became very quiet.
"Whatever happens tonight will be because of the choices those men made."
I looked at my splinted arm.
"I made a choice too."
"Yes."
"I told you."
"And you were right to."
My voice began shaking.
"What if I shouldn't have?"
Damon spoke with a force I had not heard before.
"Do not take responsibility for protecting the people who hurt you."
I closed my eyes.
For a moment, I had no answer.
Then he added something unexpected.
"Your statement belongs to you."
I opened my eyes.
"What?"
"If you want to make a formal report, I'll provide the footage and witnesses."
He paused.
"If you want an attorney before making any decision, you can have one independent of me."
I swallowed.
"And if I don't want anything?"
"Then you can recover."
His voice softened.
"You do not owe me a particular response."
I wanted to believe that.
But I also remembered him telling Matteo he wanted names before sunrise.
"How many men?" I whispered.
He was silent.
"How many are you looking for?"
Another pause.
"More than the ones you saw."
My heart began pounding.
"How many?"
Damon did not answer.
Instead, he said, "Get some sleep, Kate."
The call ended.
I stared at the dark screen.
Marisol watched me.
"What did he say?"
I looked toward the closed hospital-room door.
"He's looking for everyone."
Marisol's expression changed.
"And I don't think he's planning to ask them questions."
I slept for less than an hour.
At 1:47 a.m., I woke to the sound of my phone vibrating against the bedside table.
There was a message from a number I did not recognize.
No greeting.
No explanation.
Just a sentence.
Your boss can't protect your mother forever.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message arrived.
Tell him you lied.
For several seconds, I could not breathe.
Because whoever had sent the messages knew exactly where to place the knife.
Not against my throat.
Not against my broken arm.
Against the one person I had spent fourteen months trying to keep alive.
I did not delete the messages.
That was the first thing I did differently.
The old Kate would have erased them, turned the phone face down, and tried to convince herself that silence was safer.
Instead, I called Walken into the hospital room.
He read the screen.
His expression hardened.
"Don't respond."
"I wasn't going to."
He looked at me.
"Has anyone else contacted you?"
"No."
"Has your mother received anything?"
My stomach tightened.
"I don't know."
Walken stepped into the corridor and made a call.
Within minutes, Matteo was speaking to me through the hospital telephone.
"Kate, we're going to secure your mother's room."
I sat upright.
"Is she in danger?"
"We don't have evidence that anyone has approached her."
"But somebody knows where she is."
"Yes."
I pressed my good hand against my forehead.
"Preston already knew."
Matteo remained quiet.
I stared at the messages.
"This isn't going to stop, is it?"
"Not if the people sending them believe fear will work."
His answer was direct.
Almost gentle.
"Do you want to speak with Damon?"
I hesitated.
There was a time when the thought of calling Damon Blackwell voluntarily would have seemed absurd.
Now I wanted to hear his voice.
"Yes."
The line changed.
Damon answered almost immediately.
"Kate."
I heard movement in the background.
Then a door closing.
"Did you see the messages?"
"Yes."
"Who sent them?"
"We're checking."
I looked toward the window.
The city was dark beyond the glass.
"Can someone really make my mother lose her care?"
"No."
He answered so quickly that I almost believed him.
"Not tonight."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I've spoken directly with the hospital administrator, and nobody is changing your mother's treatment without the medical team's approval."
I swallowed.
"But Preston's family knows people."
"So do I."
The words were simple.
Terrible.
For the first time, I understood why rich people spoke about power as though it were a physical object.
One family could threaten to take away a hospital bed.
Another family could promise to protect it.
And people like my mother and me lived between those promises, hoping neither side changed its mind.
I stared at my phone.
"How many men have you found?"
Damon was silent.
"Please."
He exhaled slowly.
"Fifteen names."
The number seemed to fill the room.
"Fifteen?"
"Yes."
I looked down at my arm.
"But I didn't see fifteen men."
"I know."
"Then why fifteen?"
Damon waited a moment.
"Because your injury was not the only thing we investigated."
I closed my eyes.
He continued.
"The cameras show several men controlling access to the east wing."
My heart began beating harder.
"Some were watching the stairs."
I remembered a man standing beside the portrait gallery, pretending to read a message.
"Others remained near the service entrance."
I remembered footsteps outside the library.
"Two people were assigned to keep household staff away from the corridor."
My stomach turned.
"Assigned?"
"That's what their movements suggest."
I stared at the dark window.
Preston had not simply stopped me while walking past.
He had brought me into a room where other men were waiting.
The realization settled over me like cold water.
"It wasn't an accident."
Damon's voice softened.
"No."
"He planned it."
"We have evidence that the meeting was arranged."
I shook my head.
"I thought I was being stupid for going into the library."
"You were responding to a work request."
The words landed painfully.
"That was your job."
I remembered the cleaning case.
The red wine that did not exist.
The careful way Preston had mentioned Eleanor Blackwell.
He had used my need to do my job properly against me.
I felt suddenly furious.
Not only frightened.
Furious.
"I want to know their names."
Damon was silent.
"Every one of them."
"Kate."
"No."
My voice surprised me.
"I want to know who stood there while I begged him to let go."
A long pause followed.
Then Damon said, "All right."
I swallowed.
"Will you tell me what you're doing to them?"
His answer came slowly.
"I'll tell you what I can."
That was not enough.
But I understood I was speaking to a man who had spent his life keeping things hidden.
"Then I want to see the evidence before you decide what I said happened."
Another silence.
When he spoke again, his voice held something unfamiliar.
Respect.
"Tomorrow, when you're well enough, you'll see everything relevant to you."
I looked at the messages.
"And these?"
"Keep them."
"I will."
"Do not answer."
"I won't."
The line became quiet.
Then I said something I had not planned to say.
"Damon?"
"Yes?"
"Please don't make me regret telling you."
He did not answer immediately.
When he did, the words were almost a promise.
"I'll remember that."
The following hours passed in fragments.
At 2:10 a.m., Walken confirmed that a second security officer had been stationed near my mother's hospital floor.
At 2:35, Saint Vincent's called to reassure me that my mother was resting and that nobody had requested a transfer or change in her care.
At 3:00, Marisol brought coffee and a clean sweater from the estate.
I could not put the sweater on easily because of my arm.
She helped me slowly, guiding the sleeve around the splint.
Then she sat beside me.
"Did you hear from Mr. Blackwell?" she asked.
I nodded.
"He says there are fifteen."
Marisol lowered her eyes.
I watched her.
"You knew there were more people involved?"
"No."
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"Then why do you look like that?"
She folded her hands.
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