Echoes of Anxiety
15
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LENAS'S POV
The morning light filters through the clinic’s lace curtains, casting soft patterns on the worn wooden floor. I sit cross-legged among scattered papers and boxes of my grandmother’s notes, the weight of last night’s attack pressing on my chest. The shattered window has been patched, but the unease lingers, seeping into the air like an unwelcome guest.
Noah’s words from last night echo in my mind: They’re scared. That means we’re getting close. His confidence was unshakable, but I can’t shake the fear gnawing at the edges of my resolve. Whoever sent that message isn’t playing games, and the deeper we dig, the more dangerous this becomes.
I pick up one of the old journals, flipping through its delicate pages. My grandmother’s handwriting is familiar and steady, each word imbued with her signature blend of strength and grace. The journal entry I stop on feels almost prophetic.
April 12, 1998 Fear is the weapon they wield. They want to break us with whispers in the dark, with threats that fester in the silence. But fear only holds power when we let it. If we keep moving, keep believing, they can’t win.
Her words ignite a flicker of strength within me. She faced so many battles, weathered so many storms, and she did it without the network I’m building now. The memory of her determination steels my resolve. I may be scared, but I won’t let it paralyze me.
A knock at the door jolts me out of my thoughts. I glance at the clock—it’s still early, far too early for patients or deliveries. My pulse quickens as I rise, the possibility of another threat tightening my chest. But when I open the door, it’s Marianne.
“Morning,” she says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. She carries a steaming to-go cup and a folder tucked under her arm, her usual no-nonsense demeanor intact. “I figured you’d need this.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, accepting the coffee. The rich, familiar aroma is comforting, but it does little to soothe my nerves. “What’s in the folder?”
Marianne sets it on the table, her expression serious. “More records. Complaints about the new hospital project, whispers about its funding sources. Nothing concrete yet, but it’s a start.”
I nod, flipping through the papers. The complaints are varied—delayed construction, displaced residents, questionable hiring practices—but the common thread is clear: unrest. People are unsettled by this project, even if they can’t articulate why. It’s a foothold, albeit a small one.
“I’ll start cross-referencing these,” I say, already reaching for a pen. “There has to be something here that connects back to Reyes or his network.”
Marianne places a hand on my shoulder, stopping me. “Lena, you can’t do this alone. You have people willing to help. Let them.”
Her words hit harder than I expect. She’s right, of course. I’ve been so focused on proving myself, on protecting the clinic and my grandmother’s legacy, that I’ve shut out the very people who want to stand beside me. It’s time to change that.
The café buzzes with quiet conversation as I sit at a corner table with Clara, the local herbalist, and Joseph, the retired community lawyer. Clara’s presence is a balm, her calm energy grounding the rising tension in my chest. Joseph, on the other hand, is sharp and pragmatic, his mind already working three steps ahead.
“I’m not surprised they targeted you,” Clara says, her voice soft but firm. “Your grandmother was a thorn in their side for years. It’s no wonder they see you as a threat now.”
“But why now?” I ask, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Why not when she was alive?”
Joseph leans forward, his expression grim. “Because she had leverage they couldn’t ignore. She knew this town inside and out, its history, its people. And she wasn’t afraid to use that knowledge to fight back. You’re still building your foundation, which makes you vulnerable. They think they can scare you into submission before you gain that same power.”
I swallow hard, the truth of his words settling over me like a weight. “Then we need to move faster. If we can rally more people—”
“We will,” Clara interrupts gently. “But it’s not just about numbers, Lena. It’s about the right people. Those who aren’t afraid to stand up, who believe in what this town can be.”
Her words resonate deeply, and for the first time since this began, I feel the faint stirrings of hope. My grandmother didn’t win her battles alone, and I don’t have to either. This fight isn’t just mine—it belongs to all of us.
By the time I return to the clinic, the sun is high in the sky, its warmth cutting through the lingering chill of the morning. Noah is waiting for me, his arms crossed as he leans against the doorframe. His sharp blue eyes meet mine, a flicker of curiosity softening his otherwise stern expression.
“How’d it go?” he asks, stepping aside to let me in.
“Better than I expected,” I admit, setting my bag on the counter. “Clara and Joseph are on board. They’re bringing others, people who want to see this town thrive.”
His lips curve into a small, approving smile. “That’s good. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”
I nod, but his words remind me of the gravity of what we’re up against. The road ahead is long, and the stakes are higher than ever. But as I glance at Noah, his quiet strength anchoring me, I know we’re ready for whatever comes next.
The morning light filters through the clinic’s lace curtains, casting soft patterns on the worn wooden floor. I sit cross-legged among scattered papers and boxes of my grandmother’s notes, the weight of last night’s attack pressing on my chest. The shattered window has been patched, but the unease lingers, seeping into the air like an unwelcome guest.
Noah’s words from last night echo in my mind: They’re scared. That means we’re getting close. His confidence was unshakable, but I can’t shake the fear gnawing at the edges of my resolve. Whoever sent that message isn’t playing games, and the deeper we dig, the more dangerous this becomes.
I pick up one of the old journals, flipping through its delicate pages. My grandmother’s handwriting is familiar and steady, each word imbued with her signature blend of strength and grace. The journal entry I stop on feels almost prophetic.
April 12, 1998 Fear is the weapon they wield. They want to break us with whispers in the dark, with threats that fester in the silence. But fear only holds power when we let it. If we keep moving, keep believing, they can’t win.
Her words ignite a flicker of strength within me. She faced so many battles, weathered so many storms, and she did it without the network I’m building now. The memory of her determination steels my resolve. I may be scared, but I won’t let it paralyze me.
A knock at the door jolts me out of my thoughts. I glance at the clock—it’s still early, far too early for patients or deliveries. My pulse quickens as I rise, the possibility of another threat tightening my chest. But when I open the door, it’s Marianne.
“Morning,” she says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. She carries a steaming to-go cup and a folder tucked under her arm, her usual no-nonsense demeanor intact. “I figured you’d need this.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, accepting the coffee. The rich, familiar aroma is comforting, but it does little to soothe my nerves. “What’s in the folder?”
Marianne sets it on the table, her expression serious. “More records. Complaints about the new hospital project, whispers about its funding sources. Nothing concrete yet, but it’s a start.”
I nod, flipping through the papers. The complaints are varied—delayed construction, displaced residents, questionable hiring practices—but the common thread is clear: unrest. People are unsettled by this project, even if they can’t articulate why. It’s a foothold, albeit a small one.
“I’ll start cross-referencing these,” I say, already reaching for a pen. “There has to be something here that connects back to Reyes or his network.”
Marianne places a hand on my shoulder, stopping me. “Lena, you can’t do this alone. You have people willing to help. Let them.”
Her words hit harder than I expect. She’s right, of course. I’ve been so focused on proving myself, on protecting the clinic and my grandmother’s legacy, that I’ve shut out the very people who want to stand beside me. It’s time to change that.
The café buzzes with quiet conversation as I sit at a corner table with Clara, the local herbalist, and Joseph, the retired community lawyer. Clara’s presence is a balm, her calm energy grounding the rising tension in my chest. Joseph, on the other hand, is sharp and pragmatic, his mind already working three steps ahead.
“I’m not surprised they targeted you,” Clara says, her voice soft but firm. “Your grandmother was a thorn in their side for years. It’s no wonder they see you as a threat now.”
“But why now?” I ask, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Why not when she was alive?”
Joseph leans forward, his expression grim. “Because she had leverage they couldn’t ignore. She knew this town inside and out, its history, its people. And she wasn’t afraid to use that knowledge to fight back. You’re still building your foundation, which makes you vulnerable. They think they can scare you into submission before you gain that same power.”
I swallow hard, the truth of his words settling over me like a weight. “Then we need to move faster. If we can rally more people—”
“We will,” Clara interrupts gently. “But it’s not just about numbers, Lena. It’s about the right people. Those who aren’t afraid to stand up, who believe in what this town can be.”
Her words resonate deeply, and for the first time since this began, I feel the faint stirrings of hope. My grandmother didn’t win her battles alone, and I don’t have to either. This fight isn’t just mine—it belongs to all of us.
By the time I return to the clinic, the sun is high in the sky, its warmth cutting through the lingering chill of the morning. Noah is waiting for me, his arms crossed as he leans against the doorframe. His sharp blue eyes meet mine, a flicker of curiosity softening his otherwise stern expression.
“How’d it go?” he asks, stepping aside to let me in.
“Better than I expected,” I admit, setting my bag on the counter. “Clara and Joseph are on board. They’re bringing others, people who want to see this town thrive.”
His lips curve into a small, approving smile. “That’s good. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”
I nod, but his words remind me of the gravity of what we’re up against. The road ahead is long, and the stakes are higher than ever. But as I glance at Noah, his quiet strength anchoring me, I know we’re ready for whatever comes next.
The clinic is unusually quiet when I step inside, the familiar scent of lavender and eucalyptus greeting me like an old friend. Noah follows close behind, his footsteps measured as he sets the paperwork we gathered at the café onto the counter. The stillness feels like a pause in a storm, as though the world is holding its breath, waiting for the next strike.
But it doesn’t feel ominous. For the first time in days, it feels like progress.
“They’re on board,” I say, letting the door close behind me. “Clara and Joseph. And with them, a handful of others who are ready to step up.”
Noah nods, his expression thoughtful. “Good. It’s a start.”
I watch him as he moves toward the kettle, his broad shoulders relaxing just slightly as he pours water into the pot. There’s something about the way he carries himself—steady, focused—that grounds me. He’s become my anchor in all of this, even if I haven’t admitted it out loud.
“I think we’re finally starting to turn the tide,” I say, leaning against the counter. “It feels... different now. Like we’re not just reacting anymore.”
He glances over his shoulder, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. “That’s because you’re leading them. They see your strength, Lena. They trust you.”
His words catch me off guard, a warmth spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the tea. “I’m just trying to do what my grandmother would’ve done,” I murmur.
“And you’re doing it,” he replies, his voice firm. “In your own way. That’s what makes it work.”
For a moment, the weight of his gaze feels heavier than the conversation, something unspoken passing between us. It’s not the first time I’ve felt it—the charged pull that seems to spark whenever we’re in the same room. But this time, it feels closer, more tangible.
The whistle of the kettle breaks the spell, and Noah turns back to pour the water into two mismatched mugs. I watch him as he moves, the subtle tension in his shoulders betraying the calm he projects. He hands me a cup, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice quieter than I intend.
He nods, his eyes lingering on mine a beat too long before he takes a step back. The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable but thick with something I can’t quite name.
“Why did you come back?” I ask suddenly, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
Noah looks up, his brow furrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”
“To Portside Bay,” I clarify, setting my mug on the counter, the warm ceramic cooling against my fingertips. My body feels a little too aware of his presence as I watch him, the way he stands just across from me, his strong frame filling the space in a way that makes everything else feel distant. “You could’ve stayed away. Built your hospitals, lived your life. Why come back to a place like this?”
He exhales, a soft breath, and leans against the counter opposite me, his posture casual but his presence commanding. His chest rises and falls slowly, his shirt stretched across the solid muscles of his torso, the subtle movement catching my attention in a way I can’t ignore. “Because it felt unfinished,” he says simply, his voice low and rich, the words settling between us like an unspoken truth. “This town, these people—they deserve better than what’s been done to them. And... I guess I needed to prove something. To myself.”
I nod, understanding more than I want to admit. The way his words settle into my chest, the sincerity in his voice, hits me harder than I expected. I feel it in my gut, that deep, almost painful connection to him. “We’re more alike than I thought,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them, surprising even myself.
His lips quirk into a half-smile, and I can’t help but notice the way it transforms his face, softening the intensity in his eyes. “Guess that makes us a good team,” he says, the implication of his words sending a small spark through me. His smile, the way his eyes linger on mine, sends heat flooding through my body, pooling low in my stomach.
“Maybe,” I reply, my own smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. But the room feels smaller, the air thick with unspoken tension. I can feel the weight of his gaze, the heat of his body across from mine, pulling me in closer even as I try to stay grounded. My pulse races, my breath catching slightly, and suddenly the warmth from the tea has faded into nothing compared to the heat between us.
“Lena...” he begins, his voice low, rough around the edges, like he’s trying to keep control but can’t quite manage it.
My body tightens at the sound of my name, my skin heating, and I wonder if he feels it too—that magnetic pull, the way the air shifts whenever he’s near. I don’t know what he’s about to say, but I’m not sure I can handle it, not when the space between us feels so fragile, so charged. My heart is pounding, and it’s all I can do not to step into him, to close that distance and see where this dangerous tension leads.
I take a step back, my pulse thrumming in my ears, and break the moment before it can shatter us both. “We should—”
But before I can finish, the sound of the front door opening cuts through the air, the sudden interruption sending a jolt through both of us. Clara steps inside, her arms full of herbs and supplies, blissfully unaware of the moment she’s walked into.
“Sorry to barge in,” she says, her cheerful tone breaking the tension like a splash of cold water. “I figured you could use these for the next meeting.”
I force a smile, not grateful for the distraction, even as my body is still humming from the moment that just slipped away. “Thanks, Clara. This will definitely help.”
Noah steps away, his expression unreadable as he gathers the papers from the counter, his movements sharp and purposeful, though I can sense the tension still crackling between us. The moment is gone, but the echo of it lingers, thick and heavy, a reminder of the thread that’s slowly weaving itself tighter between us.
After Clara leaves, the clinic grows quiet again, but the atmosphere feels different. The tension from earlier has been replaced with a resolute focus. Noah and I sit at the small kitchen table, poring over the scattered documents and maps that now dominate the space. The faint hum of the overhead light mixes with the soft patter of rain against the windows.
“This can’t be a coincidence,” I say, tapping a finger against a highlighted section of a report. “Look at this. These environmental evaluations—every single one shows unexplained contaminants in the soil and water near the clinics Reyes has ties to.”
Noah leans closer, his brows furrowing as he studies the documents. The closeness sends a faint shiver through me, his steady presence grounding me even as my mind races. “It’s systematic,” he murmurs. “Sabotage the environment, drive up demand for specialized healthcare or pharmaceutical products, and profit off the chaos.”
I nod, the pieces clicking into place. “He’s not just exploiting people. He’s poisoning them.”
The words hang in the air, heavy with their implication. My stomach churns at the thought of what that means for Portside Bay—for my grandmother’s clinic, for the people who’ve trusted this place as a sanctuary.
Noah’s voice breaks through my thoughts, low and steady. “This is bigger than I thought. He’s not just preying on existing vulnerabilities—he’s creating them.”
I glance at him, the determination in his expression sharpening the edges of my own resolve. “We can use this,” I say, my voice firmer now. “If we can prove this connection, we can bring him down. Publicly.”
Noah’s lips curve into a faint smile, the weight of the moment softening just slightly. “You’re relentless, you know that?”
I shrug, feigning nonchalance even as my heart races under his gaze. “I had a good role model.”
He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Your grandmother would be proud.”
The mention of her name stirs something in me—grief, pride, and a quiet yearning to live up to the legacy she left behind. I reach for another folder, flipping through its contents with renewed focus. “She taught me that healing isn’t just about treating symptoms. It’s about addressing the root cause. And if Reyes thinks he can uproot this town for his own gain, he’s in for a fight.”
Noah nods, his expression serious. “Then let’s make sure we’re ready for it.”
Hours pass in a blur of research and quiet collaboration, the rhythm of our movements syncing in a way that feels effortless. It’s only when the rain intensifies outside that I realize how late it’s gotten. The sound of it pounding against the windows is almost hypnotic, a steady backdrop to our work.
I push back from the table, stretching my arms overhead as the tension in my shoulders eases slightly. “We should call it a night,” I say, my voice tinged with exhaustion.
Noah glances at his watch, his brow furrowing. “You’re right. But before we do…” He picks up a folder and flips it open, pulling out a series of faded records. “I found something earlier. It might explain why Reyes is targeting this town specifically.”
I lean in, my curiosity piqued as he spreads the papers across the table. They’re old—decades old—with handwritten notes and official stamps marking their significance. “What is this?” I ask, scanning the pages.
“Environmental impact studies,” he replies, tapping a finger against one of the documents. “Look here. These reports show unusually high levels of contamination in the soil and water near industrial sites—sites owned by shell companies that Reyes was linked to. And they’re all from small towns like Portside Bay.”
I study the data, my stomach sinking as the pattern becomes clear. “He’s been doing this for years,” I whisper. “Using environmental sabotage to destabilize communities and drive people to his facilities.”
Noah nods, his jaw tightening. “And if he’s doing it here, we need to stop him before it’s too late.”
The weight of the discovery settles over us, heavy and inescapable. But beneath the urgency, there’s a spark of hope—a sense that we’re finally starting to uncover the truth.
“We’re going to expose him,” I say, my voice steady with conviction. “Whatever it takes.”
Noah meets my gaze, and for a moment, I forget about everything else. His eyes lock onto mine, burning with the same fire, the same unrelenting determination. “Together.”
The word hangs between us, a quiet promise, a bond forged in something deeper than just this fight. And it feels more intimate than I ever expected. My heart skips, and my pulse quickens in response, the air thick with something I can’t name but feel all the way to my core. For a moment, I forget about the papers, the storm raging outside, and all I can focus on is the man standing before me—the heat in his gaze, the strength in his presence, the way he makes everything feel... possible. There’s something undeniable in the way he holds my gaze, something in the unspoken connection that tightens around us with every word, every glance. I can feel the air between us crackling, heavy with everything we’re not saying, everything I can’t seem to ignore.
The desire to close the distance between us pulses in my veins, to step into him, to feel his body against mine. I want to lose myself in him—his warmth, his strength. I wish he would make the first move, because I’m ready to finish what we’ve both been willing to start. But I can’t bring myself to cross that line, and yet, I want him to do it. I want him to take that step and claim what’s already building between us. I need to feel his lips on mine, to taste the promise in the air between us. But instead, I just stand there, my body aching with the unspoken tension, wishing the moment could stretch on forever.
But then, the clinic’s front door creaks open, a jarring noise that snaps me out of the haze surrounding me. My heart skips a beat as my thoughts scatter, and I glance toward the hallway, the shadows stretching longer in the dim light.
“I’ll check it out,” I say, my voice a little slower than usual, trying to steady myself. The unease prickling at the back of my neck is hard to ignore, but I push it aside, focusing on what’s in front of me. I need to keep it together. I make my way toward the door, the sound of my footsteps loud in the stillness, my body still humming with the memory of Noah’s presence so close to me.
When I reach the door, I pause, my hand hovering over the doorknob. Taking a deep breath, I steady myself before pulling the door open. And as the cool air rushes in, my breath catches in my throat.
There, on the ground, is a small bundle of herbs tied with twine. The sight of it sends a chill racing down my spine, and my grandmother’s voice echoes in my memory: “Every plant has a purpose. Even the poisonous ones.”
The tension in my chest tightens again, but this time, it’s not just from the fear of what’s to come. It’s from the feeling of unfinished business with Noah—the moment we just shared, the way his body had been so close to mine, so full of heat, so full of promise. And now, with the sight of the bundle before me, I’m torn between the weight of what I need to focus on and the undeniable pull to go back to him.
It’s a warning. A threat. And the message is clear.
“Lena?” Noah’s voice calls from behind me, his footsteps quickening as he joins me at the door. His gaze drops to the bundle, his expression darkening.
“What is that?” he asks, his voice low.
I swallow hard, my hands trembling as I bend down to pick it up. The small cluster of purple flowers is deceptively beautiful, their delicate petals soft beneath my fingertips. But the weight of recognition settles over me like a heavy fog, suffocating and cold.
“It’s wolfsbane,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper, barely steady. My stomach churns as I turn it over in my hand, the faint aroma sharp and bitter, unmistakable. “And it’s not just any herb. It’s the one my grandmother always warned me about.”
Noah steps closer, his brow furrowing. “Wolfsbane? I’ve never heard of it,” he admits, his tone tinged with concern. “What’s so dangerous about it?”
I glance at him, the tremble in my hand more pronounced now. “It’s one of the most poisonous plants in the world. Even handling it without care can cause harm. The toxins can seep through the skin, and ingesting even a small amount can cause paralysis—or worse, death.”
His expression sharpens, his focus moving from my face to the sprig in my hand. “Then why would anyone even touch it, let alone keep it around?”
“Because,” I say, swallowing hard, “like many poisonous plants, it has its uses. My grandmother called it ‘the shadow’s flower,’ a reminder that even the most dangerous things can have purpose if respected. Wolfsbane has been used for centuries to treat heart conditions, but only in the tiniest, most precise doses. Skilled healers can extract its alkaloids for medicine, but it’s risky. One mistake, one miscalculation, and it becomes deadly.”
Noah’s eyes darken, the weight of my explanation sinking in. “And someone left it here. On your doorstep. Knowing exactly what it is.”
I nod, my throat tightening. “It doesn’t grow naturally around here, Noah. Whoever left this didn’t just stumble upon it. They brought it here to send a message.”
His gaze shifts back to me, his expression unreadable for a moment before hardening with quiet determination. “What kind of message?”
My grandmother’s voice echoes in my mind, her words laced with both wisdom and caution. “A warning,” I say, my voice trembling despite the strength I’m trying to summon. “They’re telling me to stop. To back down. And they’re using the one thing my grandmother taught me to fear, to respect, to handle with care.”
Noah steps even closer, his hand brushing against mine as he examines the plant. “So, they’re trying to scare you. To make you doubt yourself.”
I place the wolfsbane carefully on the counter, grabbing a tissue to wipe my hands, as if the faintest trace of its toxins could linger. “It’s more than that,” I say, my voice firmer now. “Whoever did this knows me. They know what this plant means to me, to my grandmother’s teachings. They’re making it personal.”
Noah’s jaw tightens, his posture stiffening with resolve. “Then they’ve crossed a line,” he says, his voice low but fierce. “Because now it’s personal for me too.”