The cafe was anonymous, a small, clean place smelling of roasted coffee and disinfectant, chosen for its utter lack of character. Zara sat in a booth at the back, a cup of untouched tea cooling before her.
Maria Sanchez arrived fifteen minutes late. She slipped through the door like a wraith, her eyes darting to every corner of the room, her hand still on the handle as if ready to bolt. Her fear was a physical thing, a tremor in the air.
Zara met her gaze. She didn’t stand. She didn’t wave. She offered only a small, calm smile, a silent promise of safety. Stay. You are safe here.
Slowly, Maria let the door swing shut and slid into the opposite side of the booth, clutching her worn handbag to her chest like a shield.
“Thank you for coming,” Zara said softly.
“They said you were a friend of… of hers,” Maria whispered, unable to say Lyra’s name.
“I am,” Zara confirmed. “But that’s not why I’m here.” She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a confidential tone. “I’m here as Dr. Ali. I’m a physician, Maria. An OB/GYN at St. Jude’s.”
Maria’s eyes widened. The tension in her shoulders eased by a fraction. A doctor. Not a lawyer, not an investigator. A doctor.
“We have a duty, you and I,” Zara continued, her voice even and sure. “To our patients. To the truth. Our first oath is to do no harm. I know the position you were put in. I know it violated that oath.”
This was the key. Not an appeal to justice, but to a shared professional conscience.
Zara leaned back, creating space. “I’m not here to ask you for anything. I just want you to tell me what happened. I will listen.”
And the dam broke.
Tears streamed down Maria’s face as the story poured out of her, a torrent of whispered horrors. The symptoms Isolde coached her to report. The medical charts she was forced to falsify. The way Isolde would laugh after Dr. Finch left the room, marveling at her own performance.
Then came the worst of it. “She showed me pictures,” Maria choked out, her body trembling. “Of my children. Getting on the school bus. She knew their names. She said… she said it would be a tragedy if something happened to them. If their mother made a foolish, selfish mistake.”
The words hung in the air, ugly and sharp.
Zara listened without interruption, her expression a mask of empathy. When Maria finally fell silent, exhausted and hollowed out, Zara reached across the table and placed her hand gently on Maria’s arm.
“You are right to be terrified,” Zara said, her voice firm with validation. “Your fear is not weakness. It is the love you have for your family. Anyone would do the same.”
She let the words sink in, a balm on a raw wound. Then, she slid a small, new burner phone across the table. It was still in its plastic packaging.
“This is for you. My number is the only one in it.” Zara stood to leave, the meeting over. She had what she needed, but she had asked for nothing. “Your conscience knows what’s right, Maria. When you’re ready to listen to it, I will be here to help.”
Zara walked out of the cafe, leaving the terrified woman with a choice, a lifeline, and the quiet, insistent voice of her own integrity.
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