Rhys sat beneath the low amber glow of a single desk lamp, the rest of the vast room swallowed by shadows.
Across from him, Nurse Elise Moreau reviewed the tablet he had slid toward her, her gloved finger scrolling through the meticulously crafted medical data.
Victor Voss’s pacemaker telemetry, altered with surgical precision to suggest progressive, irreversible decline.
Elise was in her mid-forties, hair pulled into a severe knot, face unreadable beneath the fluorescent scrubs she wore for authenticity.
She had come recommended through Eliot’s discreet network of people who understood that money could buy silence as easily as it bought skill.
“Timeline is everything,” Rhys said, voice low, almost conversational, as though they were discussing quarterly projections instead of a man
