Please say he’s okay. Please say he’s alive. Please say this is all just a terrible nightmare.
“I’m afraid he’s dead.”
The words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest, stealing every molecule of air from my lungs.
Dead.
He’s dead.
I killed someone.
Game over, Faith. You’re officially a murderer. And now everyone will finally see what you really are.
6
RYKER
The fluorescent lights outside of Faith’s room buzzed like angry wasps, casting everyone in that particular shade of institutional green that made healthy people look like corpses. I’d pulled Blake out here to get the truth from him.
“How is she really?” I kept my voice low, but, God help me, I’d been worried I’d made the wrong call, delaying her care. In the moment, I’d gone into defense lawyer mode, but what if her head injury was worse than I realized? What if she …
Blake’s jaw could’ve cut glass. “Concussion. They’re running more tests to be safe, but, physically, she seems to be okay.” The words had barely left his mouth when his gaze caught on something behind me, and every muscle in his body locked up.
“Did they document everything?” I asked. “Photograph her injuries?”
Blake nodded. “Every bruise, every scratch. The head wound especially. It’s all on record.”
“Good. That’s going to matter.” I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. “I’ve already put a call in to my PI. He’s meeting me first thing tomorrow to start searching the area for surveillance cameras, witnesses, and anyone who might’ve seen or heard something in or near those woods.”
“And the body?”
“I’m staying on top of the coroner. I want a full autopsy. Defensive wounds, toxicology, exact cause of death, time of death. Everything by the book before anyone has a chance to cut corners or spin a narrative.”
The sharp click of leather soles against linoleum echoed down the corridor, measured as they drew closer. I didn’t need to turn around to know that walk meant trouble, but I did anyway.
A man in a charcoal suit moved toward us with the kind of purposeful stride that parted crowds in courtrooms. Even under the harsh hospital glare, he looked polished, powerful. Dangerous.
“Shit.” My stomach tightened the way it had three years ago, watching him destroy Stanley Reddick on the stand. Reddick had been nineteen, scared, innocent. Wolfe had made him look guilty of murder in under twenty minutes.
Blake’s voice dropped. “He looks familiar.”
I studied him as he approached. His silver hair was swept back from a high forehead, not a strand out of place despite the late hour, and his suit wasn’t just charcoal; it was bespoke, the fabric catching the light in a way that screamed four figures. Italian shoes, French cuffs peeking out just so, a blood-red tie.
“He’s an assistant district attorney for Chicago,” I explained.
“The prosecutor,” Blake clarified.
My stomach dropped. “Yes.”
“Is it common for prosecutors to show up at midnight to question victims?”
Victim. That’s what Faith had to be. Not suspect. Not killer.Victim.
“No.” The word came out harsh. “Not common at all.”
I watched Wolfe flash his credentials at the nurses’ station, all practiced charm and calculated smiles. The head nurse actually giggled. Giggled. Like he was some movie star instead of a man who’d put four innocent people behind bars in the last five years alone. Not that anyone could prove they were innocent after Wolfe got through with them. The manmoved through the world like he owned it, probably because enough powerful people owed him favors that he basically did.
“Wolfe.” Blake’s brow furrowed as recognition fluttered. “Isn’t that the same guy who?—”
