Chapter 43: Jessica Wakes

POV: Elizabeth

The drive from the prison to County General Hospital took forty minutes. I spent every second trying to process what Hendricks had told us. Helen had ordered Jessica’s attack. My sister had nearly died because she’d accidentally overheard things powerful people wanted buried.

By the time we pulled into the hospital parking lot, I was running on adrenaline and barely contained fury.

“You should rest,” Royce said, touching my arm. “You’ve been through a lot today. Your bruises—”

“I need to see Jessica first. Then I’ll rest.”

I was already out of the car.

The moment I stepped off the elevator onto Jessica’s floor, I knew something had changed. Nurses were moving quickly, purposefully. A doctor I recognized—Dr. Richardson—was rushing toward Jessica’s room, two nurses flanking him.

My heart stopped.

“What’s happening?” I grabbed a passing nurse’s arm. “That’s my sister’s room. What’s going on?”

“You’re Jessica Wakefield’s sister?” The nurse’s expression shifted immediately. “You should come with me.”

“Is she okay? Is she—”

“Please. Just come.”

I ran, Royce right behind me. We reached Jessica’s doorway just as Dr. Richardson finished his rapid assessment. The machines were beeping differently now—faster. The oxygen mask had been pushed aside.

And Jessica’s eyes were open.

“Oh God.” I pressed my hand to my mouth. “Oh God, she’s awake.”

Dr. Richardson turned, his face breaking into a genuine smile. “Miss Wakefield, perfect timing. Your sister has been asking for you for the past ten minutes.”

I crossed the room in seconds, dropping into the chair beside her bed. Her eyes found mine—glassy with exhaustion and medication, but unmistakably alert.

“Lizzie,” she whispered.

“I’m here.” Tears spilled down my face, weeks of terror releasing all at once. “I’m right here, Jess. I’m not going anywhere.”

She lifted her hand, the effort visible. I grabbed it with both of mine. She looked terrible—bruised, pale, fragile—but she was awake. She was alive.

“You look terrible,” she murmured.

I laughed through my tears. “You have a breathing tube mark on your face and you’re criticizing me?”

“Somebody has to.” A ghost of her old smile appeared, then faded. “How long?”

“You were in a coma for eleven days.”

She absorbed that. “Feels longer.”

Dr. Richardson placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “She needs calm, brief conversation. She’s conscious but extremely weak. We’re monitoring for complications.”

“Okay,” I said, forcing my breathing to steady.

Royce stayed near the doorway, giving us space.

“Jessica, I need to ask you something,” I said softly. “Do you remember anything about the attack? About the woman who hurt you?”

Her expression darkened. “Not everything. It’s blurry.”

“That’s okay. Take your time.”

“I remember Martinez,” she said slowly. “Before she… she said someone paid her good money. Said the woman who hired her was classy. Fancy clothes. Fancy perfume.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“She said the woman’s assistant came to see her. Professional. Forties. Dark hair. Very put together.”

Patricia Chambers.

“It’s very helpful,” I said carefully. “You’re corroborating evidence we already have.”

“Evidence against who?”

“Helen Morrison. She ordered the attack.”

Jessica’s jaw tightened. “I knew it wasn’t random.” She squeezed my hand. “Is she going to try again?”

“Not if we stop her first.” I pressed her hand to my cheek. “I promise.”

Dr. Richardson returned, his expression cautious. “Five more minutes.”

Before I could respond, another man entered—administrative clothing, hospital ID clipped neatly to his lapel.

“Miss Wakefield,” he said. “I’m Dr. Samuels, Hospital Liaison for Correctional Services. I’m here regarding your sister’s transfer.”

“Transfer?” My stomach dropped. “She just woke up from a coma.”

“The Bureau of Prisons has requested her return to custody once medically cleared. We anticipate forty-eight hours.”

“No.”

“There’s more.” He cleared his throat. “The inmate who attacked your sister is now claiming Jessica provoked the assault. A formal complaint has been filed. Additional charges may be pursued.”

“That’s insane,” I snapped. “She was the victim.”

“I understand. I’m only delivering the information.” He set papers on the table. “I recommend securing legal counsel immediately.”

He left.

Jessica looked at me, fear shining in her eyes. “Additional charges?”

“No,” I said firmly. “That’s not happening. This is Martinez trying to save herself.”

“What if it works?”

“It won’t.” I kissed her forehead. “I’ve got you.”

Her eyes fluttered, exhaustion reclaiming her. Within minutes, she was asleep again.

Royce joined me. “We’ll need lawyers by morning.”

“She corroborated everything,” I said. “This strengthens our case.”

“And the transfer?”

“I’ll fight it. I’m staying tonight.”

Royce arranged overnight security, posted guards outside the room, and brought food from the cafeteria. Hours passed quietly. He left briefly to handle urgent board matters, then returned near midnight.

Around one in the morning, the door opened softly.

I assumed it was a nurse.

But something felt wrong.

The movement was too deliberate. Too quiet.

I turned.

A nurse I didn’t recognize stood by Jessica’s bed, adjusting the IV. Her posture was tense. Focused. And in her hand—partially concealed—was a syringe.

I was on my feet instantly.

“Hey!” I grabbed her wrist before the syringe could reach the line. “Who are you? What are you doing?”

She spun toward me, utterly calm.

She smiled.

“Helen Morrison sends her regards.”