Ch.3: Dead Nurse Walking

My apartment door wasn't locked. The deadbolt had been chewed out of the frame, leaving a jagged mouth of splintered wood.

I didn't reach for a weapon. I still had the brick from the grave in my coat pocket, heavy and cold against my hip, but I knew the apartment would be empty. The sedan at the cemetery had been the "all clear" signal. They had finished their work here while I was busy weeping over construction materials.

I pushed the door open with my boot.

Total devastation.

It wasn't a robbery. It was an autopsy of my life. The sofa cushions were disemboweled, white stuffing scattered like snow over the hardwood. My books were torn from their spines. The drywall was punched through in search of hidden safes or wall cavities.

They weren't looking for money. They were looking for leverage. Diaries, hard drives, medical logs—anything I might have kept from my time at the hospital that could contradict Dr. Thorne’s narrative.

I walked through the debris, the mud from the grave drying into a tight crust on my skin. I stepped on a framed photo of my mother. The glass crunched, a sharp, biting sound in the silence.

I walked straight to the kitchen.

They had smashed the toaster and ripped the cabinet doors off, but they had missed the loose kickplate under the dishwasher.

I dropped to my knees, ignoring the pain in my joints, and pried the panel loose.

My emergency cash stash—five thousand dollars in twenties, saved for a nursery that never happened—was still there. Next to it was my old laptop, the one with the cracked screen I hadn't used in three years.

I grabbed them both and stood up.

My reflection caught in the window above the sink. I looked like a wraith. Hollow eyes, hair matted with rain, clothes stained with graveyard soil. Elena Vance. The disgraced nurse. The hysterical mother. The liability.

As long as Elena Vance existed, Daisy would never be found. Elena Vance couldn't get within a mile of the Thorne Estate without being arrested.

I reached into my bag and pulled out my wallet.

Driver's license.
Registered Nurse ID.
Social Security card.
Library card.

I tossed them into the stainless steel sink.

I found a half-empty bottle of lighter fluid under the counter—miraculously untouched—and doused the pile. The smell of petroleum filled the small kitchen, masking the scent of the intruder’s cologne that still lingered in the air.

I struck a match and dropped it.

*Whoosh.*

The flame roared up, turning the sink into a crucible. I watched my face on the ID badge curl and blacken. The plastic bubbled, hissing like a dying snake. The gold foil of the state seal turned to ash.

I didn't feel sad. I felt lighter.

I carried the laptop to the only chair left standing and booted it up. The fan screamed, struggling against dust, but the screen flickered to life.

I didn't open Google. I opened a Tor browser.

Years ago, a paranoid patient in the ER—a hacker with a gunshot wound I treated off the books—had shown me how to navigate the underbelly of the internet. He owed me a favor. He had given me a login key for a marketplace that didn't sell drugs or guns. It sold lives.

*Welcome, Guest.*

I navigated to the "Credentials" tab. I filtered by "Education: Nursing/Childcare" and "Background: Clean."

A profile popped up.

**Subject:** Mara Kovic.
**Age:** 26.
**Status:** Deceased (Unreported, overseas accident).
**Qualifications:** Certified Nanny, CPR qualified, clear background check.
**Price:** $4,500.

It was almost every dollar I had.

I looked at the 'Buy Now' button. This wasn't just a purchase; it was a suicide pact. Once I clicked that button, there was no going back to the police. There was no going back to my mother.

I clicked.

The screen refreshed. *Transfer Complete. Download Packet.*

Ten minutes later, I was on the public web, staring at the Thorne Foundation’s career page. There it was, posted just six hours ago.

**IMMEDIATE OPENING: Live-in Nanny for Special Needs Infant.**
**Requirements: Strict NDA. Medical background preferred.**

I attached Mara Kovic’s spotless resume. I attached the fake references included in the packet.

I typed the cover letter with fingers that no longer shook.

*Dear Dr. Thorne,*
*I have dedicated my life to saving children others have given up on.*

I hit send.

The fire in the sink had burned down to embers, leaving nothing but unrecognizable slag.

Elena Vance is dead. 'Mara' is going to get that job, or die trying.