The file lay open on the polished mahogany of the secure office, a single page containing a name and an address. Maria Sanchez. The Nightingale Agency. It felt less like a lead and more like a target painted on the back of an unsuspecting woman.
Caspian paced the length of the room, the adrenaline from Lyra’s televised triumph still a sharp, acidic burn in his veins. She had faced Isolde’s ugliest weapon and turned it into a shield. Now it was his turn to act.
“The approach has to be clean,” Zara Ali said, her voice cutting through his thoughts. She sat perfectly still, a stark contrast to his restless energy. “I’ll go alone. A doctor from St. Jude’s, following up on a professional standards inquiry. It gives me a legitimate reason to ask about Isolde Finch.”
“And when she panics?” Caspian countered, stopping to lean his palms on the table. “Isolde threatened her once. She won’t hesitate to do it again.”
“She won’t panic if I handle it correctly. This isn’t about pressure, it’s about offering a lifeline.” Zara’s gaze was clinical, unwavering. “You’ll be two blocks away with a car and a relocation package ready to go. We offer her safety first. The testimony comes second.”
It was a sound plan. Logical. Precise. It was Zara’s plan. His own instincts were blunter, fueled by a corrosive guilt that demanded a faster, more brutal resolution. But he had learned the hard way that his instincts were compromised.
He nodded. “Fine. We move in one hour.”
As if summoned by the finality of his words, his private phone vibrated against the table. The number was blocked, but he knew the exchange. The Hawthorne estate. He answered, his throat tight. “Yes?”
“Mr. Hawthorne.” It was his grandmother’s personal assistant, her voice strained with a professional panic that was more alarming than hysterics. “It’s Mrs. Hawthorne. She’s had a turn. The doctor is on his way, but she’s asking for you. Urgently.”
The world tilted. Eleanora. The one person whose respect he had utterly squandered. The foundation of his world, now cracking.
“I’m on my way,” he said, the words automatic.
He hung up, the silence in the room suddenly suffocating. The file on the table seemed to mock him. Maria Sanchez. The key to ending this was right there, a ten-minute drive away. But his grandmother…
“Go,” Zara said, her expression unreadable. She had already closed the file. “This lead can wait a few hours. Your grandmother cannot.”
He stared at her, a storm of disbelief and frustration churning inside him. “Isolde could get to her. If she even suspects we’re close—”
“Then we will have lost this move,” Zara interrupted, her voice firm. “But if you alienate your grandmother now, you risk losing an ally you don’t even know you have. Go, Caspian. Handle your family. I will wait for your signal.”
He knew she was right. It was a strategic retreat, but it felt like a failure. He grabbed his keys, his mind already racing down the parkway toward the estate.
Before he left the office, he paused, pulling out his other phone. He dialed Isolde’s hospital room, constructing his mask of concern before she even answered.
“Isolde,” he said, his voice a flawless performance of strained devotion. “Something’s come up. My grandmother, she’s not well. I have to go to the estate immediately.”
Her reply was a soft murmur of sympathy, laced with the cloying poison of her supposed selflessness. “Of course, darling. Family first. Just… be safe.”
“Always,” he lied, and ended the call.
He walked out, leaving Zara alone with the paused objective, a single file on a wide, empty table. The war had just been forced onto a new, unexpected front.
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