Chapter 4 - The Ghost of Saint Jude's
The room seemed to lose all oxygen. I stared at the folder, then back at Julian’s face.
The pieces began falling into place with terrifying speed—the strange security protocols, the way he looked at me when he hired me, the fact that a high-profile syndicate leader had picked an overqualified, fake-named nanny out of dozens of candidates.
"You knew," I breathed, horror rising in my chest. "You hired me on purpose. You brought me into your house... why? To kill me? To get revenge for your sister?"
"If I thought you killed her, Maya, you wouldn't have survived your interview," Julian said coldly. "I hired you because you were the only person in that entire hospital who tried to save her. And the only person who refused to take Marcone’s money to shut your mouth."
I opened the folder. Inside were crime scene photos, medical records, and toxicology reports I had begged the police to run two years ago—reports that had conveniently vanished from the official case file.
"She was poisoned," I said, my eyes scanning the chemical names on the page. "Potassium chloride IV drip. It caused sudden cardiac arrest. I tried to push epinephrine, but someone had cleared the crash cart—"
"It was sabotage," Julian interrupted. "Marcone killed my sister to send a message to my father. Then he used his puppets in the precinct to blame the head nurse on shift. You."
"Then why keep me here like a prisoner?" I demanded, standing up, my courage surging past my fear. "Why lock me up in this house? Why make me pretend to be someone else?"
"Because Marcone doesn't like loose ends," Julian said, stepping into my space until I had to tilt my chin back to look at him. "The moment you survived that scandal and dropped off the grid, they kept hunting for you. If they found you out there, they would have put a bullet in your head to make sure you never testified."
"And here?" I asked, my breathing shallow. "What am I here?"
"Protected," Julian said smoothly. "And mine to keep safe."
Before I could answer, the security console on the desk let out a sharp, high-pitched screech. Red lights flashed across the walls.
The secondary door—the one leading directly to the underground escape tunnel—was vibrating. Heavy thuds echoed from the steel plate. Someone was using a thermal drill from the outside.
Julian didn't flinch. He reached down, unholstering a second firearm from his hip, and tossed it to me.
I caught it by the grip instinctively, my heart slamming into my throat.
"Ever shot one of those?" Julian asked, racking the slide of his own weapon.
May you like
"In shooting ranges," I said, checking the safety out of reflex. "When I realized dirty cops were following me."
"Good," Julian murmured, a slow, lethal smile touching his lips for the fraction of a second. "Keep your eyes on the door. When it breaks, don't aim for the chest. They're wearing body armor."
