Ch.12: The Detective

The doorbell rings.

The sound cuts through the speakers in the basement like a siren. It’s loud, insistent, and utterly mundane.

I look at the monitor on the wall. Aris turned it back on before he left, wanting to keep an eye on his 'unstable' patient. But he forgot to change the channel from the house security feed.

I see the front porch.

A man stands there. He is wearing a rumpled trench coat that looks like it’s been slept in. He has a five o'clock shadow that’s pushing forty-eight hours.

He holds up a badge to the camera.

**Detective Lucas Thorne.**

My heart gives a single, hopeful thump.

*Lucas.*

He investigated the tunnel crash. He was the one who pulled Isabella out of the burning car. He interviewed me at the hospital when Aris claimed I had 'fainted from shock.'

He knows something is wrong. He has to.

The feed switches. Now I see the foyer.

Aris opens the door. He has changed. He is wearing a black cashmere sweater and dark slacks. He looks like a grieving husband who hasn't slept in days—which, ironically, is true, though not for the reasons he’ll claim.

"Detective," Aris says, his voice perfectly modulated to convey weary politeness. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Thorne doesn't smile. He steps inside without waiting for an invitation. He looks around the grand entryway, his eyes scanning the marble floors, the sweeping staircase, the closed doors.

"Just following up, Dr. Vane," Thorne says. His voice is gravelly. "We had a report of a disturbance. A neighbor heard screaming last night."

My heart rate monitor ticks up. *65 BPM.*

The screaming. That was Isabella during my seizure.

Aris doesn't flinch. He sighs, rubbing his temples.

"My wife," he says softly. "Elena. She... she had a bad night."

"Is that so?" Thorne asks. He walks past Aris, heading toward the living room. "I thought Mrs. Vane was in a persistent vegetative state. Locked-in syndrome, the report said."

"She is," Aris says, following him closely. "But the brain stem reflexes remain. Sometimes... sometimes the muscles spasm. It can be quite vocal. It’s distressing for everyone."

"I bet."

Thorne stops in the middle of the living room. He looks at the fireplace. He looks at the spot where Lily hugged the monster last night.

"Can I see her?" Thorne asks.

Aris stops. His back stiffens slightly.

"She's resting, Detective. The episode was severe. She's heavily sedated."

"I don't need to talk to her," Thorne says, turning to face him. "Obviously. I just need to verify her condition. Visual confirmation. Standard procedure for a wellness check."

"I assure you, she is receiving the best care in the world," Aris says, his voice hardening. "I am a doctor."

"You're a plastic surgeon," Thorne corrects him. "Not a neurologist."

Aris's jaw tightens.

"I have a fully equipped ICU in the residence. Nurses around the clock."

"Great," Thorne says. "Then it shouldn't be a problem for me to peek in."

He takes a step toward the stairs.

"She's not upstairs," Aris says quickly.

Thorne stops. He looks up the stairs, then back at Aris.

"Where is she?"

"The master suite was... difficult," Aris lies smoothly. "Too many memories. We moved her to the guest wing on the ground floor. Better accessibility for the equipment."

He points to the hallway leading to the west wing.

My stomach drops. The west wing is where Isabella is recovering.

He's going to show him Isabella.

He's going to pass off the thief as the victim.

"Lead the way," Thorne says.

Aris hesitates for a fraction of a second. Then he nods.

"Of course. But please, keep your voice down. She's very fragile."

They walk down the hallway. The camera angle changes as they move from room to room. I watch them approach the guest suite.

Aris opens the door.

The room is dim. The curtains are drawn.

Isabella is lying in the bed. She is bandaged heavily. Her head is wrapped in gauze, leaving only her eyes and mouth visible.

But her eyes are covered too. She is wearing dark, oversized sunglasses.

"The photophobia is severe," Aris whispers to Thorne. "Bright lights trigger the seizures."

It’s a brilliant lie. It covers the bruising. It covers the wrong eye color. It covers the fact that she can see perfectly fine.

Thorne walks to the bedside. He looks down at the woman in the bed.

"Mrs. Vane?" he says.

Isabella doesn't move. She lies perfectly still, mimicking the paralysis I am actually suffering.

"She can't answer you," Aris says from the doorway. "She can't move."

Thorne leans in. He studies her face. He looks at the mouth—my mouth. He looks at the chin—my chin.

"Rough night, huh?" Thorne murmurs.

He reaches out.

Aris takes a step forward. "Detective, please—"

Thorne ignores him. He reaches out and gently lifts Isabella's hand.

It’s the left hand. The one with the wedding ring.

My wedding ring.

Thorne looks at the ring. Then he looks at the fingers.

He runs his thumb over the knuckles. He feels the skin.

Isabella’s hand twitches.

It’s microscopic. A tiny reflex. She pulls back just slightly from the touch of a stranger.

Thorne freezes.

He doesn't let go. He holds the hand for a second longer. He feels the warmth. He feels the muscle tone.

He feels the life that shouldn't be there.

He gently places the hand back on the sheet.

He turns to Aris. His face is unreadable.

"She feels warm," Thorne says.

"Fever," Aris says instantly. "Infection risk is high with the tracheostomy."

Thorne nods slowly. "Right."

He looks back at Isabella one last time. He looks at the sunglasses.

"Why is she wearing sunglasses inside, Doctor? If the curtains are drawn?"

"I told you," Aris says, his patience fraying. "Photophobia. Even ambient light hurts her."

Thorne stares at the sunglasses. He seems to be weighing something. He seems to be calculating the odds of ripping them off right now.

But he doesn't. He knows he needs a warrant. He knows Aris has lawyers who cost more than the entire police department's budget.

"Alright," Thorne says. "Thanks for your time, Doctor."

He walks past Aris, heading for the door.

Aris relaxes. I see his shoulders drop an inch. He thinks he's won.

But as Thorne passes the hallway table, he pauses. He adjusts his coat.

And in a movement so smooth it’s almost invisible, he drops something.

A small, black burner phone slides out of his sleeve and lands in the potted fern by the door.

It lands silently in the dirt.

Thorne doesn't look back. He walks out the front door.

Aris closes it behind him and locks it. He leans his forehead against the wood, exhaling a long, shaky breath.

He thinks the danger is gone.

But on the screen, I stare at the fern.

Thorne didn't buy it. He's my only hope.