26

26

CLAIRE

The Mustang skidded to a stop in front of Grayhaven’s only hospital, if you could even call it that. It was a small building with peeling paint and a sagging sign that read Grayhaven Community Medical Center.

Evan jumped out first, swinging Lila’s limp body into his arms. He carried her in a bridal hold, his shirt was already covered with her blood. Her head rested against his chest as he pushed through the glass doors.

I stormed in after him.

The air inside smelled of bleach and dust. A handful of elderly patients sat slumped in plastic chairs. Across the reception desk, two nurses leaned against the counter, gossiping, their laughter was loud in the quiet.

Another nurse idly tapped her nails against her phone screen, in the reflection of her glasses I could see her playing a game. It was obvious this place rarely had real emergencies.

Not one of them moved.

“Help!” I shouted. My voice echoed too loud in the dead lobby. “She’s not breathing right. She needs a doctor now.”

The nurses glanced up like I’d interrupted their break. Their eyes flicked over me—my accent and my bloodstained clothes—and slid away again.

One of them finally muttered, “Forms are over there. Fill it out.”

“Forms?” My voice cracked into a laugh that wasn’t a laugh. “She’s dying!”

“She’ll have to wait,” another nurse said, shrugging. “Doctor’s busy.”

Evan’s jaw clenched, but his voice stayed steady. “She doesn’t have long. Please.”

“Oh, sugar, it’s three a.m.,” said another in a lazy sing-song voice. “You can’t rush miracles.”

They didn’t budge.

Rage roared up through me. I slammed my hands on the counter. “If you don’t get off your asses and help her, she’ll die in your lobby, and I swear to God I’ll make sure the lawsuit buries this entire hellhole of a hospital.”

That finally drew silence.

The doors at the back creaked open, and a man stepped through. Tall, dark-haired, the kind of face that would’ve belonged on a magazine cover if not for the tired lines etched at the corners of his mouth. His coat was half-buttoned. He looked at us with clear eyes that didn’t miss a thing.

“I’m Dr. Ethan Cross,” he said, “What’s going on?”

“Lila Brody,” I gasped,“She’s hypoxic. Her airway’s compromised—she’s barely breathing. I… I performed an emergency tracheotomy in the house. She’s bleeding, her pulse is slipping. You have to stabilize her, now!”

Dr. Cross’s eyes narrowed“You did what?”

“I know it sounds insane,” I said, frustration filled my tone, “but it was her only chance. She would’ve died otherwise. I need you to take over before it’s too late.”.

Dr. Cross knelt beside Lila, pressing fingers to her neck, checking her vitals. “You realize how dangerous that was, right?” he asked. “Tell me exactly what you did.”

I met his eyes. “Cricothyrotomy with a ballpoint pen. It was all we had.”

For the first time that night, one of the nurses gasped.

The doctor didn’t. His mouth just curved in something like respect. “Well done. She’s alive because of you. But she won’t stay that way unless we move.”

He turned on the nurses, “Stretcher. IV. Call respiratory. Now.”

They scrambled, suddenly all moving, there was no trace of the laziness from minutes before. A stretcher rattled across the floor, and Evan laid Lila onto it.

I caught her hand before they wheeled her off.“Hold on,” I whispered fiercely. “Don’t you dare leave now.”

Her chest rose shallowly, a wheeze through the crude tube. That was her answer.

They pushed her down the hall, doors swinging shut behind them.

The silence that followed rang too loud.

Evan rested a hand on my shoulder. “She’s going to be fine,” he said. Calm, even, though his eyes betrayed the tension beneath the surface. “But you—” He hesitated, then added, “You need to tell me what the hell is going on. Who was that masked bastard? Since you showed up, Grayhaven has gone completely mad.”

I sank onto a chair, wiping my hands on my jeans. Blood—so much blood. I could feel it caked under my nails. I exhaled heavily.
“I can’t tell you everything. Mason, and Lydia Rourke. It’s all connected. I swear it.”

Evan sat beside me. “And you think it’s the same person?”

“Yes.” My voice was “There’s no denying it now. Mason, Cal, Lydia, Lila… the spiral mask, the attacks. It’s all the same pattern.”

He nodded slowly. “Alright. Then we’re in the same war, I guess.”

I gave a half-smile, tired, exhaling through my nose. “Thanks, Ethan. For… knowing what to do.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. 3:14 a.m. The past few hours had been chaotic. Lydia approaching me, her warning, finding her dead, saving Lila in a farmhouse, and racing to the hospital through dark woods. We’d survived, barely, but the night had left its marks.

“Bathroom,” I muttered, pushing myself up.

One of the nurses—the same one who’d been scrolling on her phone—pointed lazily toward a cracked door near the vending machine.

Inside, the mirror was cracked at the corner, the sink stained. I gripped the edges and stared at myself. Blood covered me—smeared across my jaw, streaked through my hair, soaked into my shirt. I looked like a mess

A month ago, I’d been drinking too much wine, crying over Daniel, cursing the move to this gray little town. Now? I was cutting holes into throats and promising vengeance to dying girls.

What a joke.

I splashed water onto my face. The blood swirled down the drain.

Lila Brody Twenty years old. An orphan for most of her life. A twin whose other half was already buried. She had no one left. She didn’t deserve this. I felt a weird sense of protectiveness over here. And at this moment it was driving me to make a vow that Lila got her life back, whatever it cost.

One thing was clear. Mason’s death and Cal’s case were tied together. No doubt about it. And now, Lila’s near-murder confirmed it. The puzzle pieces were snapping together.

I dried my hands on rough paper towels and stepped back into the lobby.

I could hear voices in the lobby, the shuffle of feet and murmurs. I frowned, straightened my jacket, and stepped out..

Acting Sheriff Quinn stood there, hair a mess, uniform half-tucked, looking like she’d been dragged out of bed. Her two deputies, Murphy and Taylor were beside her, talking with a crowd of town folk who’d clearly wandered down after hearing gossip about gunshots at the Brody farmhouse.

Quinn’s gaze found mine instantly, it was full of disdain.

I glared back. Harder. Evan slid between us, breaking eye contact without a word. “They want to talk to us about the gunshot at the Brody farmhouse,” he said quietly.

“I thought her incompetent ass wouldn’t have—”

Quinn’s mouth opened to interrupt, but Ethan raised a hand. “Nora.”

Quinn’s smirk faltered. She shut up instantly. Evan stayed in the middle of us. He seemed to have an effect on Quinn.

“Apparently some town folks living near the Brody farmhouse heard the gunshot,” he said “and called the county.”
I stared at Quinn “You know,” I said, my voice low, dragging out every word, “for a town that’s supposed to care about its people, it’s amazing how invisible some of them can be. Lila.

She mourned her brother in that massive, cold house all alone. No one checked in. No one comforted her. No one even bothered to show up at the funeral. And the moment she lands in the hospital, half-dead and gasping for air, suddenly the county and the sheriff want to act like they’ve been worried sick this whole time.”

Quinn raised her hands slowly, still leaning against the wall, like she’d just been waiting for me to lose my temper. “Darlin’, Are you’re done with your little tantrum.”

I blinked. The audacity. I let out a short, sharp laugh. “Sure, Quinn. What do you want to hear? The truth… or the version that lets you sleep at night?”

She smirked, like she’d already guessed my answer. “The one that keeps the paperwork clean, of course.”

I leaned in, letting my voice drop. “Fine. I’ll tell you the truth. Lila was about to be murdered. If not for me and Evan dragging our asses out of here and actually doing something, she’d be lying in the cold floor of that farmhouse right now. You? You and your deputies were busy trying to cover up Lydia Rourke death"

Quinn let out a soft whistle, it was that infuriating little sound she always made when she thought she was amused.
“You don’t have to get all dramatic, Monroe. Just… a statement. That’s all"