The safe house was sterile, all glass and chrome, reflecting a man Caspian no longer recognized. He stared at the screen displaying the Preliminary Dossier Marcus Thorne had compiled. Daniel Corbin. Dr. Finch’s brother. A history of petty fraud. It was all there, a neat and tidy map of a conspiracy that had cost him everything.
He had the proof. The video on the encrypted flash drive was undeniable.
But what could he do with it? If Caspian Hawthorne, the spurned ex-husband, released it, the media would tear him apart. They would call it a forgery, a desperate act of revenge. Isolde would weep on camera about his cruelty, and the world would weep with her. He was toxic. His word was worthless.
To help Lyra, he needed someone the world might still believe. Someone whose credibility was absolute.
He needed Zara Ali.
The thought was acid in his gut. He had threatened her. He had dismissed her. She hated him, and she had every right to.
But Lyra’s safety was more important than his pride. Atonement was more important.
Caspian picked up the burner phone, its cheap plastic unfamiliar in his hand. He punched in the number for Zara’s private office line, his thumb hovering over the call button. This was the first step on a path from which there was no return. He pressed it.
The phone rang twice before a crisp, professional voice answered. “Dr. Ali.”
“I need to speak with you about Lyra,” Caspian said, his own voice sounding hollow.
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by a silence thick with fury. “You have a damn nerve, Hawthorne. I’m hanging up, and if you ever call this number again, I’ll file a restraining order.”
“Wait,” he said, the word coming out rougher than he intended. “Her last appointment. You were worried about a subchorionic hematoma.”
The silence that followed was different. Colder. More analytical. He had used a piece of medical information only the two of them could know, a detail he’d overheard in a moment of fury at St. Jude’s. It was a key, designed to unlock a door he had slammed shut himself.
“How do you know that?” Zara’s voice was dangerously low.
“It doesn’t matter,” Caspian said, swallowing the bile of his own past behavior. “I have definitive, undeniable proof that Isolde Finch is a fraud. That she staged the attack. I have it on video. Lyra is in danger, and you are the only person I can trust to help me.”
He didn’t ask her to trust him. It was an impossible request.
“I’m not asking you to believe me,” he pressed on, his voice urgent. “I’m asking for ten minutes. Public place. Your choice. I’ll show you everything.”
He could hear her breathing, the sharp, controlled rhythm of a mind processing an impossible proposition. The seconds stretched into an eternity. He had laid his only card on the table.
“The Grindstone Cafe. On Mercer,” she finally said, her voice like ice. “Tomorrow. 8 a.m. You have exactly ten minutes. And Caspian? If this is a trick, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
The line went dead. He was in.
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