Chapter 8: What Thirty-Six Hours Revealed
The lab results came back in thirty-four hours.
Marcus called at six in the morning.
Adeline was already awake — she had barely slept in two days — and she took the call sitting at the small desk in her room, watching the light change outside the window.
"Sedative compounds," Marcus said.
"Two of them.
The first suppresses consolidation of short-term memory.
The second inhibits fine motor recovery in patients with existing neurological trauma." A pause.
"In plain language — the first one was making him forget things.
The second one was stopping him from walking."
Adeline set her hand flat on the desk.
"How long would it have taken," she said, "without those tablets?"
"The neurologist I consulted said a patient with Nico's injury profile — without interference — should have been walking with assistance within four months.
Possibly driving within six."
Eight months.
Still in the chair.
"Is it enough?" she asked.
"For charges?"
"Combined with the financial records and Dorian's statement — yes." Another pause.
"Dorian talked, by the way.
Last night.
He gave us Fenwick.
He gave us the dates.
He gave us the name of the pharmacy that filled the unlisted prescription." Marcus's voice was dry.
"He was very cooperative once he understood that Camille was not going to protect him."
"What did she offer him?"
"A share of the Vellore account.
Enough to retire on, he thought." A short silence.
"He thought wrong."
Adeline looked at the window.
"Does Nico know?"
"I'm calling him next.
I wanted you to hear it first." A beat.
"You're the reason we have anything to work with.
He should know that too, but I wanted you to hear it first."
She thanked him and ended the call.
She sat for a moment.
Then she got up, washed her face, and went to Nico's room.
She knocked.
"Come in."
He was already awake, already dressed — or as dressed as mornings allowed.
He looked at her face when she came through the door.
"Marcus called you," he said.
"Yes."
"Tell me."
She told him.
All of it.
The compounds, the timeline, the four months he should have been walking, the six months he should have had his life back.
She told him about Dorian's statement and the pharmacy and the name of the account.
She told him plainly, the way she told him everything — like a human being who deserved to know the truth about what had been done to him.
When she finished, he was quiet for a long time.
"Four months," he said.
"Yes."
"I lost four months."
"At least."
He looked at his hands.
At the wheels of the chair.
"I want to try something," he said.
"Now?"
"Right now."
He moved the chair to the side of the bed.
He set both hands on the mattress.
She watched him — didn't move to help, didn't move to stop him — and she saw the exact moment he decided.
He pushed.
It took three attempts.
On the third, he was standing.
Not steadily.
His hands were still on the mattress and his legs were shaking and it lasted maybe eight seconds before he sat back down.
But he had been standing.
He looked up at her.
She didn't say anything.
She didn't need to.
He reached out and took her hand — not the way a patient takes a nurse's hand, not the way a man holds on because he's frightened.
The way a person holds on to another person because they want to.
"I have to ask you something," he said.
"I know."
"You said — in the corridor—"
"I know what I said."
"Did you mean it?"
She looked at him.
At the eight months in his face.
At the man who had been made smaller by people who needed him small, and who had stayed himself anyway, underneath all of it.
"Yes," she said.
"I meant it."
He held her hand a moment longer.
Then: "Marcus is going to need us both in an hour."
"I know."
"So we should probably—"
"Yes," she said.
May you like
"We probably should."
She didn't let go of his hand until she had to.
