Chapter 722
[ 512 words ]
Chapter 722:
“The husband,” Beatrix said, her voice low and intense. “The one you gave up your whole life in Washington for. The one who makes you look like you’ve seen things no one should ever see.”
She stared directly into Caroline’s eyes, her gaze unwavering. “Who is he? Really?”
Caroline’s hand, holding the thermometer, froze for a fraction of a second. A cold fist clenched around her heart. The image of Jarrod, his dark eyes burning with a possessive fire, flashed in her mind.
She recovered instantly, her expression smoothing into one of mild boredom. She handed the thermometer to Beatrix.
“He’s a contractor,” she said, her tone casual, dismissive. “Private security. It’s a common job in D.C.”
Beatrix took the thermometer but didn’t put it in her mouth. She just held it, her eyes never leaving Caroline’s face.
“A contractor,” she repeated slowly, tasting the word. “A contractor doesn’t give a woman the eyes of a killer.”
𝖱𝖾𝘢𝗱 𝘧𝘳𝘦e nov𝖾𝘭𝘀 о𝘯 𝗀a𝗹𝘯о𝘷e𝗅𝗌.𝖼𝗼𝘮
Caroline leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. The mask was perfectly in place now, impenetrable.
“To survive in Washington,” she said, her voice as cool and smooth as polished steel, “everyone needs a little bit of a killer in them.”
The room fell silent. The only sound was the quiet hum of the medical equipment. The two women sat, locked in a battle of wills, each trying to see past the other’s defenses, while outside, in the cold, dark night, new dangers were gathering.
The first rays of dawn were painting the sky in shades of gray and pale rose when Caroline slipped out of Beatrix’s room. She carried an empty tray, the remnants of the puppy’s breakfast, and moved with a practiced silence down the empty hallway. Doodles was safely tucked away in a warm supply closet, content after a meal of stolen sausage.
She disposed of the evidence in the medical waste incinerator chute, the small metal door clanging shut with a sound of finality.
Back in the room, Beatrix waited until she was sure Caroline was gone. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, a sharp, grinding pain in her ribs making her gasp. She ignored it. Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself to her feet, using the wall for support, and began a slow, painful shuffle toward the nurse’s station.
Dr. Reed was at the medication cabinet, her back to the hallway, methodically organizing bottles of painkillers. She heard the soft scuff of hospital slippers and turned, her expression immediately hardening.
“Hendon, what in God’s name are you doing out of bed?” she demanded, her voice low and sharp.
Beatrix leaned heavily on the counter, her knuckles white. She was pale and sweating from the effort, but her eyes were clear and determined.
“Is she married?” Beatrix asked, getting straight to the point. “Caroline Thompson. Is it real?”
Dr. Reed’s hands stilled. Her mind flashed to the imposing figure of Colonel Jarrod Romero, to the unspoken orders that had accompanied his wife’s arrival. Her face, however, remained a perfect, unreadable mask.
“Patient information is confidential,” she said, her voice cold and professional. “You know the law.”
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