The DNA Report

Chapter 4 The Clean Break

The monitor beside my bed kept a steady beep. I woke in a private room under crisp white sheets. An ache ran from the needle mark to my shoulder, and even lifting my head took effort.

Elias sat beside the bed with his face in his hands. When I opened my eyes, he sat up and leaned toward me.

“Aria.” He reached for me. I moved my hand under the blanket. “I’m sorry. Chloe is stable. The doctors said you saved her life.”

I stared at the ceiling.

“When she fully recovers, we’ll tell everyone the truth. We’ll have a proper engagement party. You’ll have your place, and I’ll make everything right.”

He leaned closer as he promised me another perfect future. It cost him nothing tonight.

He had said those words before.

I looked at him. “You promised that once already.”

His forehead creased. “When?”

“During the fire. Smoke filled the room, and the wall behind you burned. You looked at Chloe before me. You said, ‘I’ll make it right. I promise.’ Then part of the ceiling fell between us.”

Elias gripped the arm of his chair until the leather creaked. The color left his face.

“Then you said her heart was too weak, and you left me under the beam.”

“No.” He backed away from the bed and struck the visitor’s chair with his knee. “How could you know that? Aria, how could you remember?”

He covered his mouth and stared at me.

I said nothing else.

He turned and hurried into the hall. His footsteps continued until the fire door closed behind him.

Once the room was quiet, I pulled out the IV. Blood welled at the puncture. I pressed gauze over it and put my feet on the cold floor.

My knees nearly folded when I stood, so I leaned against the bed until the room stopped moving.

The black credit card sat beside a glass of water. I placed it in the middle of the pillow.

I took the folded paper and admissions pen from my gown pocket. I had palmed both at the admissions desk before the transfusion. With the paper flat against the bedside table, I wrote two lines.

*My life for the fire. My blood for your lie. We're even now.*

*Don't look for me.*

The door opened without a knock. Julian stood behind a wheelchair in a male nurse’s scrubs.

He kept his face blank for the hallway cameras, but his gaze stopped on the blood at my arm before he spoke.

“Ready, Ms. Sterling?”

“I’m not Ms. Sterling.”

He nodded and helped me into the chair. A blanket covered the hospital gown and my bare feet.

He took a service door instead of the main corridor and pushed me past the laundry carts to the staff exit.

A plain black sedan waited at the curb. Cold night air struck my face and kept me awake long enough to get inside.

Julian folded the wheelchair, put it in the trunk, and took the seat beside me.

As we drove away, the hospital’s white entrance shrank in the rearview mirror. I did not ask which airport we were using. Julian would tell me when it was safe.

(Elias’s POV)

I paced the hall. Aria had died in that fire, yet the woman in the room had described where I stood, what I said, and the order in which the ceiling collapsed.

I clung to the only answer I could bear: the transfusion had confused her. I would go back, speak calmly, and get control of the conversation again.

I opened the door.

“Aria, we need to talk.”

The bed was empty. The sheets still held the shape of her head.

The black card lay on the pillow beside a folded note.

I crossed the room too fast and struck my hip on the table. I snatched up the paper and read it once, then again.

*My life for the fire. My blood for your lie. We're even now.*

*Don't look for me.*

The paper shook in my hand. She remembered the fire. Worse, she had expected me to choose Chloe again.

I called my head of security.

“Find her. Cover every airport, train station, and port in the city. Pull every camera you can access and flag her image across the state. I want her found now.”

After the call, I swept the glass and phone charger from the bedside table. The glass broke against the wall.

I searched the drawers, wardrobe, and waste bin for a ticket, receipt, or message.

The room held no luggage, ticket, passport, or second phone.

Only the note remained.

*We're even now.*