Because this isn't new to her. This is muscle memory.
I'm moving toward the next cot with water bottles when it happens.
A girl—older than some, maybe eighteen, nineteen—stirs. Dark hair snarled around her face, eyes sunken but sharp. She watches Sloane walk toward her, tracking every step. Sloane softens into that gentle, steady professional mask she uses like armor.
"Hey," she murmurs, kneeling beside the cot. "I'm Sloane Turner. I'm a nurse. You're safe now, okay? Can I check you over?"
The girl's throat works. Her gaze flicks to Sloane's hands, back to her face. Lips parting.
"You," she whispers. "You were… Nurse Mercer."
Time stops. Sloane's hands freeze mid-air. Every muscle goes taut. The color drains from her face so fast her lips go white.
I'm moving before I think, stepping between them and cutting off the girl's view of Sloane. "Hey," I say, keeping my voice level. "You don't have to—"
Sloane touches my arm. Just a brush of fingers, but it stops me cold. "It's okay," she says, and it's not. Voice too thin, too careful. "I've got it."
She edges around me, positioning herself back in the girl's view.
Nurse Mercer. My brain latches on and won't let go. Mercer. Her maiden name. The one she carried into my life. The reason we rushed the paperwork and turned a fake marriage into a legal shield so she didn't have to keep wearing the identity her father built for her.
I've never heard someone from her old life say it to her face before.Whatever it costs her to hear it is written across every locked muscle in her body.
Sloane swallows. "What's your name, sweetheart?" Only someone who knows her can hear the crack under the calm.
"Tessa," the girl says, then braces. "Tessa Rios."
Sloane's brow furrows. Professional cataloging. "Rios," she repeats, softer. Her pupils blow wide. Shoulders jerk as if she's taken a punch to the ribs. Small. Anyone else would miss it. "Your sister?" The words sound dragged from her throat. "Her name?"
Tessa's eyes fill instantly. "Elena. Elena Rios. You… you sat with her. At St. Matthew's. You held her hand."
I see it land. Sloane's mouth opens, closes. Guilt, grief, recognition, a flash of anger, all of it flickering across her face in a single heartbeat, raw enough to make my skin prickle.
"I—" Her voice cracks. She clears her throat. "Tessa, right? Okay. We're going to take care of you. Can I check your lungs?"
Tessa nods, tears streaking through dirt.
Sloane gets to work. Stethoscope. Instructions. "Breathe in. Out. Again." Hands steady again, but eyes too bright. Jaw clamped so tight the muscle jumps. I stand close enough to catch her if she sways. She finishes, adjusts Tessa's blanket, offers a small, fierce smile. "You did well. Rest. You're safe here."
Then she turns on her heel and walks away. Too fast. Too straight. Past the supply table. Past Maggie. Just away. I follow.
The hallway is dimmer. Quieter. Sloane leans a shoulder against cinderblock halfway down, eyes closed, one hand braced flat beside her head like she's holding up the building. I slow down, not wanting to spook her. She still jumps when she realizes I'm there.
"I'm fine," she says immediately. Every time someone in this club says those two words, they're lying.
I stop a few feet away, giving her space. "Didn't say you weren't." She drags in a breath. Lets it out slow. Eyes fixed on some point over my shoulder. "Mercer," I say quietly.
Her gaze snaps to mine like I've yanked on a leash. "Don't," she whispers.
I almost obey. Almost. "You knew her sister. Elena."
Her mouth tightens for a second. "Once. I knew her once."
I wait, giving her silence to fill instead of pushing. A trick that works on witnesses, suspects, prospects who don't want to talk. Works on Sloane, too.
"I did a rotation at St. Matthew's," she says finally, voice small. "Before I came here. Before the club. Before you. It was supposed to be six weeks. I… stayed for three months. They were short-staffed." A humorless smile ghosts across her mouth. "That's what I told myself, anyway."
"What were you really doing?"
