Shadows of the Past
6
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NOAH'S POV
The rain slides down the glass in slow-moving trails, blurring the dimly lit streets of Portside Bay into a watercolor of muted golds and grays. The weight of the past few hours presses against my chest, a constant reminder of what we uncovered at the docks and what it means for this town—for Lena. My laptop hums quietly on the desk, its screen glowing with the damning documents we risked everything to retrieve. Reyes’s fingerprints are all over them, though nothing definitive enough to expose him outright. Not yet.
I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight as I stare at the tangled mess of information on the screen. It’s a puzzle with too many missing pieces, and the clock is ticking. But this fight isn’t just about Reyes’s network or his crimes—it’s about something far more personal.
My throat tightens as a memory rises unbidden, one I’ve tried to bury countless times but that always finds a way back. Her face appears in my mind, unbidden and vivid. Emily Hart. Thirty-four years old. Far too young to die.
The storm outside seems to deepen, the rain hitting the windows harder as the memory sharpens. Emily wasn’t just another patient. She was the kind of person who radiated light in even the darkest places. She had come from Portside Bay—a small-town woman with big dreams, her warmth and determination evident in everything she did. I still remember the way she laughed, soft but unyielding, as though daring the world to take her joy from her.
I met her on the morning of her surgery. It was a routine procedure, the kind I’d done so many times I could have performed it blindfolded. But that day, there was something about her that stayed with me. She had looked me straight in the eye, her voice steady despite the nerves she must have felt.
“They just see numbers,” she had said, her hands clutching the edges of the hospital bed. “But we’re not numbers, are we? We’re people. Lives. Dreams. Families.”
At the time, I thought it was just pre-surgery jitters. Now, I see her words for what they were—a truth I’d ignored for too long.
The surgery should have been straightforward. I’d gone through the motions, trusting the equipment, the process, the system that I’d been taught to rely on. But something went wrong. Catastrophically wrong. Emily’s heart stopped on the table, and no matter what we did, we couldn’t bring her back.
For weeks, I carried the weight of her death like a stone in my chest, convinced that I had failed her. But then the company that manufactured the surgical equipment swept in, their response so polished and rehearsed that it made my skin crawl. They smoothed things over with her family, paid for the funeral, and even offered to cover the clinic’s legal fees. At the time, I thought they were protecting me—protecting us—from litigation.
I was wrong.
Years later, when the immediate aftermath had dulled and I began to ask the questions I should have asked back then, the truth emerged like a knife through the fog. The company had cut corners, skipping critical testing phases to rush the device to market. The equipment I had trusted without question had failed because of decisions made in boardrooms by men who would never set foot in an operating room. And buried within a labyrinth of shell companies and falsified documents, I found a name: Reyes.
His involvement was like smoke—always present but impossible to grasp. The money saved from cutting corners had funneled through his network, disappearing into the pockets of executives who didn’t even know Emily’s name.
She had been reduced to a number, a statistic in someone’s quarterly earnings report.
The fire in my chest burns hotter as I glance back at the documents sprawled across the desk. Lena’s grandmother had been fighting the same battle, trying to shield her clinic from the same kind of corruption that cost Emily her life. And now Reyes is here, using the Torres Clinic as another pawn in his game.
The thought of him exploiting Lena, of turning her grandmother’s legacy into another cog in his machine, is unbearable.
I close my eyes, exhaling slowly, but the storm inside me refuses to calm. My hands clench into fists, the anger coursing through me as raw and volatile as the rain pounding against the windows. Emily’s words echo in my mind— we’re not numbers, are we? —and I can’t stop the flood of statistics I’ve uncovered since that day.
The number of medical errors leading to preventable deaths in the U.S. alone is staggering. Some estimates place it as the third leading cause of death, just behind heart disease and cancer. Hundreds of thousands of lives lost—not to illness, not to accidents, but to a system designed to prioritize efficiency and profit over safety. I’d read the studies, the reports, and each number felt like another weight added to my conscience. Emily had been one of them. And for a long time, I had been complicit in the very system that had failed her.
The hospital project in Portside Bay was supposed to be different. It was supposed to be my redemption, a way to honor Emily’s memory by creating a place where patients weren’t just statistics, where care wasn’t dictated by the bottom line. But now, with Reyes lurking in the shadows, it feels like the same nightmare is repeating itself. The same corruption, the same lies, the same indifference to the lives being destroyed.
I stand abruptly, pacing the small office as the storm outside rages on. My reflection in the rain-streaked window looks back at me, haunted and determined. I’ve spent years carrying the weight of Emily’s death, letting it fuel my work, my need to make things right. But tonight, the weight feels heavier than ever, as though the stakes have doubled, tripled.
It’s not just about Emily anymore. It’s about Lena, about this town, about every person who walks into a hospital or clinic believing they’ll be cared for, only to be betrayed by the very system meant to protect them.
The dive bar is exactly how I remember it: dim, grimy, and steeped in an atmosphere of unspoken deals and broken promises. The neon beer sign flickers against the streaked windows, casting jagged shadows over the cracked linoleum floor. The air reeks of sweat, stale cigarettes, and whiskey that’s more burn than taste. It’s the kind of place people go to forget, or to disappear. And tonight, I’m not sure which category I fall into.
Trevor sits in a corner booth, nursing a whiskey like it’s his only friend. His once-pristine leather jacket is cracked and scuffed, a relic of a man who used to care about appearances. His face is a study in hard living—grizzled and lined, his bloodshot eyes evidence of sleepless nights and too many regrets.
I hesitate for half a second before making my way to him, weaving through tables littered with empty glasses and conversations carried in low, conspiratorial murmurs. This isn’t the kind of place someone like me belongs, but it’s the only place to find Trevor. And finding him wasn’t easy.
Years ago, Trevor was a whistleblower—a man with enough guts to go up against the pharmaceutical company that Reyes used to funnel his schemes. But blowing the whistle didn’t lead to redemption. It led to ruin. They chewed him up, spat him out, and left him to rot in places like this. He’s a cautionary tale, one that made headlines briefly before being buried under corporate spin and legal firepower. I found him through old contacts, whispers of a man who knew too much but had nowhere to go.
Trevor doesn’t look up as I approach, but the subtle tension in his shoulders tells me he’s already clocked me. He waits until I slide into the seat across from him before acknowledging me, his lip curling in a humorless smirk. “Dr. Noah Grant,” he drawls, his voice thick with whiskey and derision. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you step out of your ivory tower and into the gutter.”
“I’m not here for a reunion,” I say, keeping my tone steady. “I need information.”
His smirk fades, replaced by a flicker of suspicion. He glances around the room, his eyes darting to the dark corners as if expecting someone to emerge from the shadows. “What kind of information?” he asks, though I can tell he already knows.
“Reyes,” I say, the name landing like a stone between us.
Trevor exhales sharply, his shoulders slumping as he swirls the amber liquid in his glass. “Reyes,” he repeats, almost like a curse. “What’s he done now?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I reply, leaning forward. “He’s in Portside Bay, and he’s targeting the clinic and medical center. I need to know why.”
Trevor lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You don’t dig into Reyes, Doc. You’re playing with fire, and he’s the kind of man who doesn’t just burn you—he incinerates everything around you.”
“I’m not here for warnings,” I say sharply. “What’s his angle?”
Trevor leans back, his gaze hardening. “Same as always. Control. He buys a few people, spreads some money around, and makes it look like he’s doing everyone a favor. But behind the scenes? He’s bleeding them dry. By the time you realize what’s happening, it’s too late. He’s already moved on, leaving nothing but ashes in his wake.”
The bitterness in his tone is unmistakable, and for a moment, I see the man he used to be—the idealist who thought he could make a difference, who thought the truth could save him. Now, he’s just a shadow of that man, broken by the very system he tried to expose.
“What about the clinic?” I press. “What’s he using it for?”
Trevor shrugs, but the flicker of unease in his eyes gives him away. “Leverage, influence—same as always. It’s a front, Doc. Probably running money, drugs, or worse through it. Whatever it is, he’s got his hooks deep. And if you’ve got half a brain, you’ll walk away before he pulls you under.”
I shake my head, my resolve hardening. “I’m not walking away.”
Trevor’s eyes narrow, his bitterness giving way to something darker—fear. “You think you’re the first person to stand up to him? You think you’re the first person to try and stop him?” He leans forward, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “He’s got blood on his hands, Doc. Real blood. And you don’t come back from crossing him.”
“I’m not scared of him,” I reply, my voice steady despite the knot forming in my stomach. “And I’m not walking away. So either help me, or I’ll find someone who will.”
Trevor studies me for a long moment, his bloodshot eyes scanning my face as if trying to decide whether I’m brave or just stupid. Finally, he leans back with a sigh, draining the last of his whiskey. “If you’re really serious about this, you’d better be ready to lose everything. Because Reyes doesn’t lose, Doc. And when he does, he makes sure no one else wins either.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I say, standing.
Trevor’s voice stops me before I can walk away. “Watch your back, Doc. If Reyes knows you’re coming for him, you won’t see him strike until it’s too late.”
I don’t respond. I just walk out of the bar, the weight of his words settling over me like a second skin.
Trevor might be right—Reyes doesn’t play fair, and he doesn’t lose. But this time, neither will I.
The heavy bar door groans behind me as I step out into the cool night air. The rain has slowed to a faint drizzle, the kind that clings to your skin and makes the world shimmer under the dim glow of the streetlights. My breath mists in the air as I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, the weight of Trevor’s warning still heavy on my shoulders. He was clear about the danger—Reyes doesn’t lose. But walking away has never been an option.
A block away, the warm glow of a café window catches my eye. The small space looks out of place in this neighborhood of faded paint and cracked sidewalks, like a glimmer of light in the dark. My feet carry me there without much thought, driven more by the need to clear my head than any actual craving for coffee.
Inside, the scent of fresh grounds and baked goods wraps around me like a balm. The hum of conversation, the soft clink of mugs, the warmth from the industrial lights—it all feels like a temporary reprieve. I order a black coffee and take a seat near the window, my eyes drawn to the rain-slicked street outside.
But my mind doesn’t stay on the streets for long. It drifts back to her. To Lena.
I take a slow sip of the coffee, but it does little to chase away the memory of that kiss. My jaw tightens as I recall the way it had started—born of tension, anger, and an almost magnetic pull I hadn’t expected. I hadn’t planned to kiss her. Hell, I hadn’t even thought about it until the moment it happened. But once I did...
I set the mug down, staring at the dark liquid as if it holds answers. That kiss wasn’t just about anger. It was a spark, an unspoken truth simmering between us. The passion had been unmistakable—raw, urgent, and more intense than I’d anticipated. I can still feel the press of her lips against mine, the way her initial resistance melted into something she couldn’t quite control. And then... she pulled away.
The confusion in her eyes when she stepped back from me is seared into my memory. It had been enough to cool the fire coursing through me at the time, but now, sitting here, I can’t stop thinking about it. About her. About what might have happened if she hadn’t stopped.
The kiss could have deepened, her breath warm against my cheek, my hands traveling all over her body. I can imagine the way her body might have leaned into mine, the tension between us dissolving into something electric, undeniable. I shake my head, frustrated with myself. This isn’t the time for daydreams. But no matter how hard I try to push the thoughts away, they keep coming back, vivid and relentless.
I run a hand over my face, leaning back in the chair. How is it possible that she’s gotten under my skin so quickly? She drives me insane half the time, her stubbornness rivaling my own. But there’s a fire in her, a determination that I can’t ignore. She’s so much more than I expected—strong, smart, and deeply loyal to a town that seems ready to turn on her the moment fear takes hold. She’s everything I’m trying to fight for, even if she doesn’t realize it yet.
A flicker of movement near the counter catches my attention, pulling me from my thoughts. My heart skips when I see her. Lena.
She’s standing by the barista, her head tilted slightly as she listens to the cashier’s quiet instructions. Her dark hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, glinting under the warm light. Even from here, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the weight of the day bearing down on her. But then she turns, catching my eye, and everything else fades.
Her brows furrow at first, her expression shifting from surprise to something softer, almost amused. She walks toward me with her coffee in hand, and I realize I must have been staring, a smirk tugging at the corner of my lips without me even noticing.
“What’s with the look?” she asks, sliding into the seat across from me. “You look... smug.”
Caught, I shake my head, the smirk deepening. “Just thinking.”
“About what?” she presses, arching a brow.
“Nothing important,” I reply, dodging the question as I lift my mug.
She rolls her eyes, but the faint flush in her cheeks tells me she’s not entirely immune to the moment. The air between us shifts slightly, charged with an undercurrent of unspoken words. I wonder if she’s thinking about the kiss too, if she feels the same pull that’s been gnawing at me since it happened.
Before either of us can break the silence, a pair of voices at the next table drifts our way.
“I’m telling you, that medical center is a front,” one man says, his voice low and conspiratorial. “They’re not here to help. They’re here to take over.”
“And what are we supposed to do?” another man mutters. “They’ve already got their claws in. We can’t fight them.”
Lena stiffens, her fingers tightening around her coffee cup. The fire in her eyes is immediate, but so is her restraint. I can see her jaw working as she swallows whatever sharp retort is on the tip of her tongue. It’s one of the things I admire most about her—her ability to channel her passion into purpose, even when it costs her.
“We’ll prove them wrong,” she murmurs, almost to herself. Her gaze meets mine, and there’s no hesitation in her voice when she says, “Let’s go.”
I nod, grabbing my coffee as we both rise. There’s no need for words; we’re already on the same page.
We step out into the cool night, the drizzle misting the air around us. The tension between us lingers as we walk side by side, the quiet punctuated only by the steady rhythm of our footsteps.
Then it happens.
The roar of an engine cuts through the stillness, and a black car barrels down the street, its headlights glaring in the dark. Gravel sprays at our feet as it veers dangerously close, and instinctively, I reach for Lena, pulling her back as the car speeds past.
A piece of paper flutters to the ground, caught in the wind. My chest tightens as I bend to pick it up, the jagged handwriting leaping out at me in the dim light:
Stay out or face the consequences.
Lena steps closer, reading over my shoulder. Her breath hitches, but when she speaks, her voice is steady. “They’re trying to scare us.”
“They’re doing more than that,” I reply, my tone grim. “This is a warning.”
Her jaw tightens, her resolve hardening before my eyes. “Then they’re about to learn something about us.”
I meet her gaze, a slow burn of determination building between us. The night presses in, heavy with danger, but standing here beside her, I know one thing for certain.
We’re not backing down.
Not now. Not ever.