The sterile hum of the hospital room had become a monotonous backdrop to James's vigil. Twenty-four hours had ticked by agonizingly slow since he'd placed that fateful call to his trusted investigator. Rafael lay in the bed, his once-imposing frame now subdued by the sedatives, his chiseled features softened in uneasy slumber. James paced the room, his mind a whirlwind of suspicions—Nurse Reyes's abrupt interruption, the Monroe sisters' gleeful malice, Henry's boyfriend claims. The pieces didn't fit, and the puzzle gnawed at him like a persistent ache.
His phone buzzed sharply, jolting him from his thoughts. He glanced at the screen: the investigator. "Talk to me, Sam," James answered, his voice low and urgent, stepping toward the window to ensure privacy.
