I turned away, my heart pressing hard against my ribs.
"I don't know if there's such a journal at home," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. "The ones she wrote, she said it was her way of remembering… said it made the loneliness quieter."
Jason's voice dropped, urgent but controlled. "She was silenced, Janica. She knew something. That journal isn't just memories. It's evidence."
I turned to him, confusion tightening my brow. My chest felt tight. "How do you even know about the journal?"
His jaw tightened, the muscles working like he was biting back the weight of a truth too long buried. "There was a day... we ran into each other outside Peterson's office. Ended up grabbing coffee at a small cafe nearby. It wasn't planned."
I lowered my arms slowly, the tension in my shoulders easing just a little. "Okay," I said, the word coming out more like a thought than a reply. "That... that makes sense."
He rubbed his face, his expression pained. A deep breath escaped him. "I didn't know how. She stepped away to the washroom and left her notebook open on the table. I glanced at one page."
"You read it," I said quietly, more a realization than an accusation.
He nodded, regret flickering in his eyes. "I'm sorry."
I felt the air grow heavy around us, like the room had shrunk and tightened around my ribs. "You read it… and you just kept it to yourself?"
"It mattered, Janica," he said, his voice low. "At the time, I didn't even know who she was to you. She was just… kind. Thoughtful. When I glanced at the journal, I didn't connect the dots. It was only later—after everything—that I realized who she really was and what that journal could mean."
I shook my head, exasperation rising like steam. "You should've told me. From the beginning."
He looked away, jaw tight. "I know."
"You knew it was her," I said, my voice cracking. "You figured it out—and instead of telling me, instead of staying—you walked away."
Jason flinched like the words struck. "I didn't know how to be there for you, Janica. I thought I was protecting you—from more pain, from what I'd seen. I didn't realize I was making it worse."
"You left me," I said, every word heavy. "You left me when I was falling apart—and you knew something. You had something."
His face twisted with guilt. "I was lost too."
"Then you should've said that," I snapped, my eyes stinging. "You should've said something."
His hand hovered for a second, just an inch from my shoulder, before he lowered it. The space between us felt like miles.
He opened his mouth, but the words died there, lost in the silence hanging between us.
Then—the door creaked open.
The nurse's footsteps faltered at the door. She stood there, eyes wide, as if bracing herself against something she couldn't bear to say. The room seemed to freeze in that moment, like the air itself was holding its breath.
Her face was pale, lips parted as if she'd just stopped mid-scream. Her grip on the chart looked unsteady, like she was holding on to it to keep from falling apart.
"There's a problem," she said, her voice strained.
Jason moved fast. He pushed the blinds aside, eyes narrowing at something beyond the window.
"There's a car across the street," the nurse whispered. "Been there for two hours. One man. Dark glasses. Hasn't moved."
A chill traced down my spine, the hairs on my neck standing. My stomach knotted. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
The nurse turned to me, fumbling with her phone like it weighed a thousand pounds.
"And someone just tried to authorize your transfer to another hospital."
I blinked, cold creeping up my limbs. "By who?"
She hesitated, swallowed. Her hands trembled slightly.
"The name they used… was your mother's."
The floor seemed to shift beneath me. My stomach twisted. My knees nearly buckled. I clutched the bed to steady myself, but the room tilted, spinning out of control.
I couldn't breathe. My mind was spinning, trying to make sense of it. Who would try to move me? What did they want? And why had no one told me? My skin tingled, every instinct screaming that something was horribly wrong.
Jason was at my side in an instant.
His hand gripped mine—warm, firm, grounding. Then, without a word, he pulled me gently against his chest. His arms wrapped around me, solid and sure, like a shield against a storm.
I pressed my face against him, the scent of his skin clean and familiar. The steady beat of his heart anchored me.
"How is that possible?" I whispered.
Jason's jaw tensed. I felt it in the way his whole body stiffened around me.
"They're coming for you, Janica," he said, low and urgent.
A knot twisted in my gut. Pain flared through my shoulder—sharp, relentless, a warning bell.
"Then we don't let them," I whispered, teeth clenched through the pain.
Jason's eyes met mine—hard, unwavering.
"We need a nurse's coat. And a wheelchair."
The nurse looked startled.
"For what?"
Jason's voice was firm, final.
"It's the only chance we've got."
What followed was a blur.
There was no wheelchair.
The coat—too big, too stiff—was draped over my shoulders. It swallowed my frame. Jason's grip never left mine, a lifeline in the chaos.
I hesitated for a second, my feet glued to the cold tile floor. I knew I should've screamed, run for help, but something in Jason's eyes made me still. He was trying to protect me, trying to get us out. And for the first time in so long, I wanted to trust him.
My shoulder throbbed with every step, each jolt syncing with the frantic rhythm of my heart.
The hallway stretched endlessly before us, a sterile maze of flickering lights and tiled echoes. My steps were unsteady. Every door we passed felt like a trap waiting to spring. The walls seemed to press in.
Each echoing footstep sounded too loud, like we were announcing our escape.
By the time we reached the basement garage, I was trembling, more from fear than the cold.
The brightness of the hospital gave way to flickering fluorescent light. The air was heavy with the scent of oil and concrete. Shadows clung to the corners like watchers.
Jason moved with purpose. Eyes sharp. Every muscle ready.
"We move fast," he said. "No hesitation. No stops."
Then—
Headlights sliced through the dark.
A man stepped forward. Tall. Coat flaring. His silhouette sharp against the dimness.
He raised his hands.
"I'm not here to hurt you," he said, voice calm, steady. "I'm here to help, Janica. Please. Let me."
Jason's gun was out before I could blink, his stance firm, protective.
But the man didn't flinch. His eyes found mine—sharp, knowing. Not cruel. Not cold. Familiar in a way that made my stomach dip.
"Your mother trusted me. She told me… if anything ever happened to her, you'd come looking for the truth."
The mention of my mother stopped me cold. I was frozen, every ounce of breath sucked from my lungs. How did he know? What did he know? The world tilted, and for a moment, I couldn't see anything but the shadows of my past coming back to life.
Jason's grip on the gun didn't loosen.
"What the hell is this?"
The man's voice didn't waver.
"She knew what was coming. She made sure you'd have help."
I stood frozen, the concrete under my feet feeling
distant. My breath caught.
This man… knew her. Knew me.
And suddenly, everything I thought I understood was unraveling.