"Backstage?" I repeat faintly.
"That's what I called it. The private corridor behind the donor wing. The… special cases." I go cold.
Security doors with keypads. Equipment that never appeared on inventory lists. My father's hand squeezing too tight on my shoulder. Alice's voice: You're excellent at this, Sloane. We should have brought you in sooner.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I lie, because lying kept me alive.
Alice watches the lie and looks delighted. "You still check pulses the same way," she says quietly. "Two fingers, not three. Breath counting under your tongue. Just the way you did in the Rivergate wing."
My stomach bottoms out. The Rivergate wing. A girl there. Sixteen, maybe. No ID, no family anyone could find. Bruises around her wrists and throat. Big eyes that flinched every time the door opened. I'd held her hand while Dr. Chamberland stitched her up. I'd whispered lies about safety. Believed them until my father signed the papers Alice slid across the desk.
The girl was gone the next morning. But I know what happened to her. I'd checked her vitals. Listened to her lungs. Written "healthy" on the form my father handed me. I'd signed my initials at the bottom. S.M. Medical clearance approved. I told myself it was witness protection. Told myself the girl went somewhere safe, somewhere Alice's hands couldn't reach. But I knew. I just didn't want to see it. I lock my knees to stay standing.
"There it is," Alice murmurs, satisfaction threading her voice. "Recognition."
"You need to leave." My voice cracking. "There are cameras. People—"
"There's chaos," she finishes. "Perfect cover. Your father always appreciated that."
"Don't," I whisper.
She leans in just enough for her perfume to suffocate. "Tell your father I said hello." My diaphragm seizes. My clipboard slips and clatters to the concrete. Papers scatter. She knows I ran. She knows I changed my name, married into a different life, buried every connection to Harrison Mercer I could reach. And she's telling me, with five words and a smile, that she can find him. That she can send him straight to me.
"No," I hear myself say. "No. Not—"
Alice straightens, already done with me. "Do take care of yourself, Sloane. Overwork doesn't suit you." She turns to leave.
I catch movement at the edge of my vision. Knox, closing the distance with purpose.
He's behind her before she finishes turning. "That's enough." Absolute.
Alice turns, irritation flashing before she smooths it. Her gaze travels up Knox's frame, assessing, dismissive. "And you are—"
"You're done here. This is a medical site. Leave."
Her smile sharpens. "How quaint. A guard dog."
Knox steps closer. Close enough that the space itself belongs to him now. His weight drops lower, shoulders squaring. The way soldiers stand when they've clocked a threat. He stares at Alice, but his jaw is wrong. Tight in a way that has nothing to do with her.
"You don't get to speak to her," he says. "You don't get to say her name."
The smile cracks. "And if I do?" Alice asks lightly.
"You won't," Knox replies.
Neither of them moves. Alice glances past him toward me. Knox shifts without looking, blocking her line of sight completely.
Her irritation shows. "Tell Harrison I'll be in touch," she says, turning away.
Knox lets her go without a word. She leaves. Her heels click faster now, and by the time she reaches the flap, she's just a woman in expensive shoes.
Only then does he turn back to me. Three strides. I release the cot edge and his fingers settle at my waist, a slight tremor in them I've never seen before. His throat bobs once, hard, and the tendons in his neck stand taut. His breathing is controlled. Too controlled. I know that look. I've worn it.
"Breathe," he murmurs, and it sounds more like an order than comfort.
But his pulse hammers against my wrist where my fingers rest on his forearm. Too fast. Even for him. I try to breathe. It takes longer than it should.
"Was that Alice Brighton?" he asks, and the weight in his voice tells me he already knows the answer. He's connecting it. Yesterday, my reaction to her name. Today, her standing over me in a triage tent. The pieces clicking into a shape he doesn't want to see.
