Chapter 3 - Room 317 and the First WordMrs. Gable didn't argue. She led me past rows of heavy oak doors, each locked from the outside with electronic keypads. At the very end of the hall, past the smell of rain and stagnant air, was Room 317.
The same number as the bank's safe-deposit box. Gertrude's mind had worked in chilling, methodical codes.
The nurse unlocked the heavy door and pushed it open. "He doesn't talk much," she murmured apologetically, stepping aside to let me enter. "The injuries from the boat... and the medications Christopher authorized over the years... they took a heavy toll."
The room was sparse, lit by a single desk lamp. By the window sat a wheelchair facing the foggy glass. A figure draped in a woolen blanket slumped slightly to the left.
My breath caught in my throat. I walked forward slowly, my boots clicking against the linoleum.
"Daniel?" I whispered.
The shoulders beneath the blanket twitched. A thin, scarred hand gripped the armrest. Slowly, agonizingly, the wheelchair creaked as it spun around.
The face before me bore the carved lines of decades of stolen life. Sunken cheeks, silver hair, and eyes the exact shade of my own—eyes wide with a terror that twenty-four years of isolation had failed to dull.
He opened his mouth, a ragged breath rattling in his chest. Saliva caught, and he coughed, his body wracking with the effort. I dropped to my knees beside him, tears finally breaking free, streaming hot down my cheeks.
"I'm here," I choked out, grabbing his trembling, ice-cold hand. "I'm right here, Daniel. It's Rosalyn."
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He stared at me, his pupils dilating as if looking at a ghost. His lips parted, teeth yellowed and uneven, and a sound scraped out of his throat—dry, broken, but impossibly clear.
"Ros... a... lyn..."
