The name Robert Carmichael sat heavy in my mind, like a stone I couldn’t swallow. Every time I tried to push it away, it came back, more insistent. What kind of connection could he possibly have to Denny—and why did Denny think it would drag me in deeper?
I couldn’t ignore it. Not after everything I’d seen.
The next morning, I sat in the hospital library, staring at the donor records. My badge granted me access to the hospital’s internal database, a perk of being part of East Brunswick Medical. I tapped Carmichael’s name into the search bar and waited, my heart pounding.
The results flooded the screen. He was everywhere. Donations to the ICU, the surgical wing, research programs—his name was plastered on everything. But as I dug deeper, something didn’t sit right. There were huge amounts of money funneled into vague “outreach initiatives,” with little detail about where the funds were going.
I leaned closer, scrolling through spreadsheets and reports. The name of a private clinic kept popping up in the records: Blackstone Wellness Center. I’d never heard of it, but it didn’t look like an official hospital partner. It wasn’t listed on the website or mentioned in any public materials.
“What are you hiding, Carmichael?” I muttered under my breath.
Back at my apartment, Denny was still sprawled on the couch, pale but alive. I’d forced him to drink water and eat some toast earlier, but his recovery was slow. He stirred as I walked in, his eyes cracking open.
“You’re still here,” he croaked, his voice rough.
“Where else would I be?” I shot back, tossing my bag onto the chair. “You’re bleeding all over my life, Denny. Literally.”
He smirked faintly. “I told you to stay out of it.”
“And I told you that you owe me answers,” I snapped. “I’ve been digging into Carmichael, and—”
“Calla,” he interrupted, his tone suddenly sharp. “Stop.”
I froze, caught off guard by the urgency in his voice. “Why? What aren’t you telling me?”
“You don’t understand what you’re dealing with,” he said, pushing himself upright with a wince. “These people… they don’t just play dirty. They’ll ruin you, or worse. You don’t want them knowing your name.”
“It’s too late for that,” I said, crossing my arms. “I’m already involved, thanks to you.”
He shook his head, his expression dark. “I didn’t want this for you. That’s why I didn’t tell you more. It’s safer if you don’t know.”
“Safer?” I barked out a laugh. “You dragged me into this the second you showed up bleeding in a parking garage, Denny. Don’t pretend you’re protecting me now.”
“I’m serious, Calla,” he said, his voice low. “Stop digging. Walk away.”
I stared at him, anger and confusion swirling inside me. “I can’t. I’ve seen too much. I’ve seen you.”
He flinched at that, like my words cut deeper than I intended. His shoulders slumped, and for a moment, he looked utterly defeated.
“Please,” he whispered. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Something in his voice softened me, but only for a moment. “Then tell me what’s really going on.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned his head away, shutting me out.
The next day at the hospital, the visions came back, stronger than ever.
I was walking past the surgical ward when it hit me like a brick wall. The hallway blurred, and suddenly I saw Dr. Sinclair standing over me, his face grim, his hands covered in blood. I was in a hospital bed, too weak to move, while he leaned down and whispered something I couldn’t make out.
I staggered, gripping the wall for support. The vision faded as quickly as it came, but it left me shaken. I couldn’t tell if it was a warning or just another cruel trick of my mind.
“Dr. Deneuve,” a voice called behind me, making me jump. I turned to see Sinclair himself, his piercing blue eyes locked on me.
“You okay?” he asked, his tone neutral but his gaze sharp.
“Fine,” I said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”
He didn’t look convinced. “You’ve been distracted lately. That’s not the kind of behavior I expect from an intern at this hospital.”
Heat rose to my cheeks. “It won’t happen again,” I said, my voice clipped.
“See that it doesn’t,” he said before walking off.
I exhaled slowly, my chest tight. If Sinclair was already suspicious, I couldn’t afford to slip up again.
That evening, I couldn’t get the name Blackstone Wellness Center out of my head. After hours of debating with myself, I finally made a decision.
I was going to see it for myself.
I found the address online—an unassuming building on the outskirts of the city. When I got there, the parking lot was nearly empty, and the windows were tinted, making it impossible to see inside.
The door was unlocked. I slipped in quietly, my heart pounding. The inside was cold and sterile, with dim lighting and a faint chemical smell. It looked like a clinic, but something about it felt… wrong.
I moved down the hallway, peeking into empty exam rooms. There were no patients, no nurses. Just silence.
Then I found the records room.
I sifted through the files quickly, my hands shaking. Most of the names meant nothing to me—until I found one that made my blood run cold.
Deneuve, Calla.
I stared at the file, my heart hammering in my chest. My name. My records. What the hell were they doing here?