The investigation was in motion. Now came the hardest part.
Caspian knew he had to return to Isolde’s side. His absence would breed suspicion, and suspicion would make her cautious. He needed her comfortable. He needed her arrogant.
He walked into her private hospital room at St. Jude’s, his expression carefully sculpted into a mask of grave concern. She was propped up against a mountain of pillows, looking pale and beautiful. A consummate performance.
“Caspian,” she whispered, her voice artfully fragile. “You came back.”
“I never would have left,” he said, his own voice a low, convincing murmur of guilt. He sat on the edge of her bed and took her hand. It felt like holding a snake.
He endured her tearful, fabricated retelling of the attack. He listened to every lie, every embellishment, every carefully placed detail designed to paint Lyra as the monster who had incited this violence. The dramatic irony was a suffocating pressure in his chest. He made all the expected promises of protection, swearing he would never let anyone hurt her again.
While playing his part, he began to probe. “This man who helped you,” he said, his tone laced with manufactured gratitude. “The one who pulled the fan off you. I need to thank him. What was his name?”
Isolde’s eyes, full of false tears, studied him. It was a test. A search for any crack in his devotion.
“Daniel,” she said finally, seeming to decide he was safe. “Daniel Corbin. He works with The Finch Foundation. He was just here dropping off some papers.”
Caspian filed the name away. A crucial piece of data for his investigation. He squeezed her hand. “A hero.”
“You’re my hero, Caspian,” she murmured, relaxing back into the pillows.
She smiled, a soft, trusting expression that made his skin crawl. She believed her control was absolute.
He smiled back, a perfect mirror of feigned love. He had passed the test. He was behind enemy lines.
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