Chapter 3 - The Doctor’s AlibiThe sun was just beginning to streak the horizon with bruised shades of purple and orange when the door to my room pushed open.
It wasn't Mara. It was a tall, silver-haired man in a crisp white lab coat, carrying a fresh chart and a tablet. His name tag read: Dr. Aris Thorne, Chief of Trauma.
He didn't look like a villain. He looked tired, pragmatic, and entirely unfazed by my hostile glare as I sat upright in bed, my fists clenched over the blanket.
“Good morning, Grant,” Dr. Thorne said smoothly, walking over to check my IV drip. “I hear you’ve been doing some unauthorized database browsing in the middle of the night.”
“Cut the crap, Thorne,” I snarled. “What is your connection to Mara? And why does your hospital IP address show up on a Power of Attorney filed under my name two years ago?”
Dr. Thorne stopped what he was doing. He slowly set the chart down on the bedside table, hooked his thumbs into his coat pockets, and looked down at me.
“You’re a remarkably stubborn man, Grant. The concussion hasn't dulled your instincts at all.”
“Explain. Now.”
“Before I explain anything, you need to understand one fundamental truth,” Thorne said, his voice dropping into a quiet, serious register. “Mara didn't come back to trap you. She came back because you were already caught in a trap, and you walked right into it.”
“What trap?” I scoffed. “I was driving home in the rain, a truck ran a red light—end of story.”
“Was it a red light?” Thorne raised an eyebrow. “The police report hasn't even been filed yet, Grant. How do you know the truck ran a red light?”
I froze. My mouth opened, but no words came out.
I remembered rain. I remembered blinding headlights. I remembered the screaming crunch of metal. But I never saw a traffic light. I had assumed it was a red light because cars don't usually T-bone each other on a green.
“You didn't see a light, did you?” Thorne said softly. “Because there wasn't an intersection. You were driven off a winding cliffside road on Route 9. A road with no traffic signals for five miles in either direction.”
A cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck.
“That’s impossible,” I whispered. “I remember the city streets. I remember—”
“You remember what your brain manufactured to cope with the trauma,” Thorne interrupted. “Just like your brain conveniently forgot that nine years ago, when your brother Owen died, he didn't die of a natural accident.”
The room went dead silent. The steady beep of the heart monitor felt deafening.
May you like
“What did you say?” I breathed.
“Owen didn't drown in the lake, Grant. And he didn't die alone,” Thorne said, pulling a chair close to the bed and sitting down. “He was murdered. And the person who killed him is currently sitting in a secure room at Memorial General Hospital, waiting for you to wake up and finish what you started nine years ago.”
