“You performed it,” Immani said. “Every time he got close to Elena, you redirected. Every time he questioned her health, you wrapped it in comfort and urgency and guilt.”
Immani nodded toward the untouched orange juice.
“And you always came back to that drink.”
Fernando grabbed his phone again, hands shaking but anchored now by fury. He scrolled through old messages he’d never read carefully because Viven had always assured him it was handled.
“You said Dr. Mercer,” Fernando muttered, like the name was lodged in his memory. “You said he was the best.”
He hit call.
The line rang once. Twice.
Then a recorded voice: “The number you have dialed is not in service.”
A silence fell so heavy it seemed to press the air out of the kitchen.
Fernando stared at his screen.
Tried another number, labeled CLINIC.
Another ring.
Another dead line.
He searched, typed, called, each attempt dissolving into nothing.
Not a receptionist.
Not a voicemail.
Not even the dignity of a real answer.
Elena’s breathing hitched, panic rising like she expected punishment for the truth revealing itself.
Immani squeezed her hand gently.
“Stay with me,” Immani whispered. “You’re safe.”