Chapter 2 - The Anatomy of a SecretThe infirmary on the ground floor of the Walker estate looked less like a room in a private home and more like a discreet urgent care clinic tucked behind the main library.
Dr. Marcus Vance—no relation to the family, or so he claimed whenever federal investigators poked around—stood over the examining table with a pair of medical trauma shears. With a swift, practiced snip, he cut through the packaging tape and pulled away the wooden cooking spoons.
I winced as the air hit the swollen, bruised skin.
“Well,” Dr. Vance muttered, shining a penlight over my wrist before gently feeling the alignment of the bone. “You’ve got a clean transverse fracture of the radius and a hairline crack in the ulna. Whoever taped this thing on did a remarkably terrible job, though using wooden spoons as a rigid splint shows an alarming level of desperate ingenuity.”
“It was all I had at three in the morning,” I murmured, staring miserably at the white paper covering the examination table.
Across the room, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest, Declan Walker watched in silence. He hadn't spoken a single word since we left the dining room. He had simply ordered Dr. Vance to the estate via a brief, terrifying phone call and stood guard outside the medical room door like a gargoyle carved from granite.
“You need a closed reduction and a proper fiberglass cast,” Dr. Vance said, preparing a local anesthetic syringe. “Possibly minor pinning if the alignment slips. You shouldn't have been using this arm at all, Sadie. The pain alone should have put you in shock.”
“The care home bill was due,” I said quietly.
Dr. Vance paused, glancing over his shoulder at Declan.
Declan didn't blink. He pushed off the doorframe, walked slowly over to the side of the table, and looked down at me. His expression was unreadable, but the muscle in his jaw was ticking.
“How much?” Declan asked.
“Sir?”
“The care home. How much do you owe them?”
“Mr. Walker, I didn't mean to make a scene—I can work, I promise I can still clean with my left hand, I’ll take a pay cut until it heals—”
“Sadie,” Declan interrupted, his voice cutting through my panic like a scalpel. “How much?”
“...Four thousand, three hundred and fifty dollars,” I whispered, looking down at my lap.
Declan didn't scoff. He didn't offer charity with a sneer. He simply reached into his pocket, pulled out a sleek black phone, tapped the screen twice, and put it to his ear.
“Vince,” Declan said into the phone. “Clear Sadie’s account at St. Jude’s Memory Care in full. Pay the next twelve months in advance. Use the contingency fund.” He hung up before the person on the other end could answer.
I stared at him, my mouth slightly open. “Mr. Walker... you can’t do that. That’s—that’s too much money. I’ll be paying you back for the rest of my life.”
“You won't be paying me back a dime,” Declan said flatly. He turned to Dr. Vance. “Fix her arm. Put her in the east guest suite upstairs until she’s healed. And find out who broke it.”
Dr. Vance looked up sharply. “You think someone here did this?”
“Sadie said she fell at her apartment,” Declan said, his eyes narrowing into slits as he turned toward the door. “My people don't fall in their apartments. Not with defensive bruising like that on her upper arm.”
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Before I could protest, Declan walked out of the infirmary, the heavy oak door clicking softly shut behind him.
Dr. Vance sighed, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. “Well, Sadie. Looks like you’ve caught the boss's attention. In this house, that’s either the safest place on earth or a death sentence. Let's get this cast on before I set the bone.”
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