Chapter 70

The room was dim, tinted with the soft blue glow of the IV machine. Outside, the wind brushed against the tall windows like a restless hand. Evelyn adjusted the last clamp on the drip, her movements slow but precise, guided by Williams’ strained instructions.

“Leave it like that,” Williams murmured, her voice thin, frayed around the edges.

Evelyn stepped back to inspect her work. The tube hung with perfect tension, the medication flowing steadily. The dressing she had placed over Williams’ wound was smooth, tight, immaculate. She’d done everything exactly right, and still she stressed about leaving out something.

Williams felt it almost immediately: a faint, electric tingling that shot down her forearm. A good sign, she thought. It meant the nerves were not severed, only traumatized. Evelyn had done her job flawlessly; everything was impeccable. Williams was properly tucked in, medicated, and fed. It was time to rest, and Evelyn, visibly exhausted, needed it too.

Williams watched her from the bed, her gaze studying her like she was a puzzle with missing pieces. She compared the woman in the photographs she’d once examined to the one standing before her now, hair pulled back loosely, cheekbones shadowed by fatigue, the faint sheen of sweat glistening on her collarbone. A scent clung to her: warm skin, faint fruit, stress, and something distinctly her.

Who is she? Williams thought.

Suddenly, a violent, bone-deep headache struck Williams, forcing her to clutch her head with her good hand.

“Are you okay, Williams?” Evelyn rushed forward, her hand instinctively reaching out and closing over Williams’s wrist.

Even in crippling pain, Williams’s instinct for control and revulsion surfaced. She stared at Evelyn’s thin fingers on her skin, the damp smear of Evelyn’s nervous sweat on her own. She violently pushed the hand away.

“Don’t touch me outside of the dressing!”

Evelyn drew in a breath, steadying herself. “Hmm. Does your head still hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Williams lied, her voice tight with strain. “You may leave. You’ve done enough.”

Evelyn didn’t move. She looked at the time, almost the hour she was supposed to lock herself back into the ‘gilded cage’ Williams had ordered her to live in. Yet she wasn’t finished. The agreement granted her a measure of control, and she intended to use it.

“So, what happened to you?” Evelyn asked, crossing her arms.

Williams felt the familiar surge of anxiety. She hated the vulnerability it demanded.

But a deal was a deal.

“A mentally ill man shot me during a conference,” she said at last.

Evelyn blinked. “Did they arrest him?”

“Yes.”

“But why did he do it?”

It was then that the memory surfaced:

Oswald’s final, accusatory words claimed she was responsible for his professional ruin. The list of people she had crushed was so extensive, so routine, that she honestly couldn’t place him. It was easier to erase the motive than to admit the truth of her ruthless history.

“No idea,” she said flatly.

“But why didn’t you stay at the hospital to receive proper treatment? Why are you hiding here?” Evelyn insisted, pushing the boundaries.

Williams fixed Evelyn with a long, cold stare, drawing the final line. “First of all, I am not hiding; secondly, I told you what happened to me. Now, I want to have some rest.”

“Have you reassured your loved ones? Cause I haven’t heard you speaking with any,” Evelyn pressed, watching her face for any flicker of vulnerability.

But Williams closed her eyes, forcing Evelyn to recognize the dismissal.

“Okay, I see.” Evelyn stood up. Before closing the door, she delivered one last, deliberate blow to the woman’s conscience: “Please, make sure to reassure them. They might be worried.” The soft click of the door felt immense.

Williams didn’t respond.
Didn’t even blink.

Once alone, Williams’s eyes snapped open. “Who does she think she is?” she seethed internally. “In any case, once my arm is healed, you’ll be giving sermons six feet under.” She sighed deeply, looking at the silent phone on the nightstand. It annoyed her, but Evelyn’s point, calculated and true, was unavoidable. If she didn’t reassure people, the frantic search for her would intensify, inviting unwanted police scrutiny. It was better to ease their impatience.

“Hmm.” She casually picked up the phone. The choice of who to call wasn’t complicated.

She dialed, and a few minutes later—

“Hello?”

“Williams? Oh, darling, are you alright? Ralph and I tried to visit, but we couldn’t see you; they said you’re under care. Can we see you?”

Williams forced a low, steady tone. “I’m fine. You shouldn’t worry.”

“But how do you expect me not to worry, darling? Where are you?”

“For now, I need to rest. When I can see you, I will tell you, but I am fine.”

Miss Kai didn’t insist, replying painfully: “Okay.” At least it was reassuring to hear Williams’ voice, and having her speak of rest was a miraculous testament coming from a workaholic.

Williams hung up the phone and, exhausted by the exertion of maintenance and deceit, fell into a deep sleep.

Meanwhile, in the streets, the night was already well advanced, the alleys of the small residential neighborhood thick with shadows. Malaya, her mind still reeling from the devastating news about Dr. Marz and Mr. Assanago, hurried down her street. The air was cold, the sound of her own quick steps echoing too loudly. She sensed a silhouette detach itself from the darkness behind her. Struck by pure, paralyzing fear, she ran.

She barely reached the recessed entry of her apartment building before a powerful figure grabbed her from behind, a hand clamping forcefully over her mouth.

“I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again!” Malaya screamed into the damp palm, a raw plea that echoed the trauma of her past under Assanago.

“Shh, shh! It’s Romaric!”

The voice, deep and familiar, cut through the terror. “Romaric?” she choked out, breathless, tears streaming. “I thought you were dead,” she added. “Did… did Yada send you?”

“You saw Yada?” Romaric asked, releasing her, stepping back into the weak glow of a distant streetlamp.

“Yes, she had come to the hospital.”

Romaric was dressed in nondescript sweatpants and a dark hoodie, his face almost entirely obscured. He looked like a shadow himself. “Listen, Malaya, tell me what’s happening at the hospital.”

“No, I don’t want any trouble! You should never have come here!”

“Why?”

“Go quickly, Makizal is everywhere, he’s watching us all…” Malaya began to cry, the accumulated fear of the last few weeks breaking free.

Romaric kept his voice low, a steady, calm anchor in her storm. He gently reassured her, convincing her to trust him one last time. Through broken sobs, she repeated everything she had told Yada: the hospital scandals. She added more information to the rumors of Dr. Marz’s “accidental” death in the Maldives. Yet regarding Mr. Assanago, she didn’t dare speak of it; that was too personal.

Romaric was stunned. So, Yada hadn’t told him any of it. She still didn’t trust him fully.

He looked around, scanning the quiet street, his posture shifting from friend to hunter. “Thank you. Don’t worry, I made sure not to be seen. Go home and don’t do anything. You’ll be fine.”

Malaya apologized out of guilt. Now Romaric knew she was the one who had given the initial evidence to Williams. But Romaric didn’t leave her in agony.

“Listen, it’s not your fault,” he said, his voice hard. “Williams had already started her own investigations. She had suspicions since the night of the incident. The reactions of Emilio and Polo only amplified her doubts, and Evelyn’s refusal to have an abortion would have, sooner or later, pushed her to a sweep.”

But now, Romaric understood the true scope. The target was never just the small fish like Emilio or Polo. Makizal was systematically erasing any potential connections to the larger conspiracy, including those who merely knew the conspirators. He was the one who held the key, the puppet master running the purge.

He stepped back, pulling his hood up again.

“Go inside,” he repeated softly. “Lock your door.”

Malaya obeyed.

Romaric turned down the alley, disappearing into the thickness of the night, moving like a man with nothing left to lose, and a plan forming in the dark.

He was going to the source: Makizal’s fortress-like home. But he wouldn’t go unprepared. He needed a strategy, and above all, he needed a good weapon.

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