The call came at 2:13 a.m.
Not through hospital dispatch. Not through cathedral channels. Directly to Cattleya Vermont’s private line — the one very few people even knew existed.
She stared at the vibrating screen for two full rings, the blue glow cutting through the darkness of her small apartment like a scalpel. Rain still pressed softly against the windows overlooking the cathedral district, turning the glass into liquid silver.
She answered on the third ring.
“Vermont.”
Static hissed first, like breath caught in old wires.
Then a voice. Male. Breathing uneven, labored.
“You handled the body downstairs.”
Not a question. An accusation wrapped in desperation.
Cattleya sat up slowly in bed, the sheets pooling around her waist. Her free hand moved instinctively toward the bedsid
