“I don’t know,” Blake replies, his voice shaking. He runs a hand through his hair agitatedly.
"How long ago? Any idea?"
Blake shakes his head and glances at me with desperation in those icy-gray eyes. "We don't know—she was fine earlier.”
"Allergies?
“No, none that we know of.”
The words fly back and forth, tension thick in the air, and I stand there frozen, guilt twisting in my gut like a vise, because this isn't some accident. This is Carolyn's fault, and I’m the one who let it happen. My stupid impersonation opened the door for whatever twisted plan she's had.
They lift Frances onto the stretcher, then, carefully but efficiently, the straps are clicked into place over her frail body. Then the wheels start rattling down the hall. That uneven clatter echoes in my heart. I feel it deep in my chest, like it my own heart that is being wheeled away.
It’s all my fault.
Blake squeezes my hand, his palm sweaty, and murmurs, "Come on, we'll follow.”
I can't speak. I just nod, tears blurring my vision as we trail them out. The salty chill of the ocean seeps into my bones. Franklin’s already waiting outside, the engine purring low in the driveway, and I slide into the back seat beside Blake, the leather cool and surreal. It’s like being in a nightmare with no escape.
We peel out behind the ambulance, sirens blaring ahead of us, flashing lights cutting through the dark Hamptons roads—past the quiet estates with their manicured hedges. Blake and I never speak. We hold hands tightly, but we never speak. Notonce. Guilt eats at me the whole way, merciless, gnawing like acid— this is on me. All of it.
We pull up to Southampton Hospital, and the emergency entrance is lit up in harsh floodlights. The kind that washes everything out in stark white. The night air has turned much colder, so cold it raises goosebumps on my arms as I hurry out of the car.
They wheel Frances in through the automatic doors, and doctors and nurses swarm her like bees—white coats flapping, voices overlapping in the controlled chaos. What will they do? Do they have an antidote for whatever Carolyn has given her?
Blake is forced to stay beside me so they can work on her. His hand is on my lower back, steady, but tense, and we get shuffled to the waiting room. The linoleum floor is sticky under my heels. My black gown feels ridiculous now, swishing outrageously among the worn vinyl chairs. To calm myself, I stand and pace back and forth, but the click of my heels sound too loud in the quiet space. I stop and wrap my arms around myself against the sterile chill, the smell of bleach and coffee hanging heavy.
Blake sinks into a chair, head in his hands, but he looks up when a doctor finally comes out. He’s middle-aged, a stethoscope dangling from his neck, and a clipboard in hand. He gives us the update: she’s stable but critical, they'll monitor her overnight, watch for complications. Relief floods into me, warm and shaky, but it's short-lived, because Blake pulls me into a hug right there and then, his arms wrapping strong around me, that familiar cologne—woody, grounding—cutting through the hospital sharpness.
"Thank God. You were great, Carolyn. I don’t know what would have happened if you had not gone to look for her," he says, voice rough against my ear.
And oh God, I want to confess everything in that moment. The words bubbling up hot on my tongue—I'm not Carolyn,Blake, it's all a lie, the real one's back, and I’m pretty sure she must have done this to Frances. But I hesitate, fear choking me tight, squeezing my chest. I don’t have any proof. It’s just Dora's confused words about seeing me in the west wing, and with everything spinning so fast, how can I drop that bomb now? He'd think I'm crazy, or worse, he’ll start to hate me.
For lying. For deceiving.
I slip away instead, murmuring something about needing air. My phone feels cold in my hand as I pull it from my purse. My fingers tremble as I dial Emma. I lean against the wall for support, the paint cool and slightly tacky on my back. It rings a few times, and when she picks up, her voice is filled with concern.
"Jules? What's wrong?" she asks.
“I’m in big trouble,” I reply, and exhale.
Then I tell her everything. I spill it all in a frantic whisper, keeping my voice low so no one overhears. What Dora saw in the west wing, the syringe by Frances's bed, finding her unconscious, and how I want to tell Blake everything, the whole messed-up truth.
She cuts in sharply, her tone snapping like a whip. "Don't you dare— don’t you dare say a word to him or you’ll be in jail by morning, Juliet Redgrave! You have no proof. It's your word against her. No one will even believe you. And with everything happening at once, the police will look at you, the imposter, as the prime suspect. Please just wait, collect some evidence first. Find something solid that exonerates you."
Her words hit me hard, the logic slicing through the panic like a cold blade. I nod in agreement even though she can't see, tears slipping hot down my cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, smearing my makeup. Just then, Blake calls my name from the waiting room doorway. His voice is worried,laced with that edge of exhaustion, and it pulls me back like a lifeline I don't deserve.
“Coming,” I say and end the call.
Chapter Fifty-Two
JULIET
"Hey," I murmur as I return to him. I reach out, and when my hand finds his arm, my fingers curl around the sleeve of his jacket. I feel the warmth of him through the wool, and he lets out a shaky breath, pulling me close without a word, his arms wrapping around me like I'm the only thing holding him together.
"She's going to be okay," I whisper against his chest, my voice soft, trying to believe it myself, but the guilt's there, gnawing at the edges, making my stomach knot. If Frances doesn't pull through, it's on me.
He nods, but I feel the tension in him, his heart thudding hard against my ear, and he doesn't let go, just holds me tighter, his chin resting on my head, the stubble rough against my hair.
