Chapter 37 Harper James #2
Two nights later, I waited until the 2 a.m. nurse finished her rounds. My legs still shook as I slipped out of bed and gripped the walker. The hallway was dim and silent except for the distant beep of machines. I moved slowly, painfully, counting every door until I reached the nurses’ station.
The key was exactly where I had seen them leave it.
My hands shook so violently it took several attempts to unlock the cabinet. Rows of bottles and vials gleamed under the weak light. I didn’t know what most of them were. I just grabbed whatever looked strong, bottles of pills, a few syringes, and shoved them into the pockets of my hospital gown.
Back in my room, I poured the pills into my lap. A small mountain of white and blue. For the first time in weeks, my mind felt strangely clear. Peaceful, almost.
I swallowed the pills in greedy handfuls, washing them down with tiny sips of water. Some caught in my throat, but I kept forcing them down until nothing remained.
I lay back against the pillows and closed my eyes.
I pictured Mom smiling tiredly over the soup pot. Harmony waving the bread knife, arguing about nothing important. The three of us safe in our small world.
Wait for me, I thought as darkness folded around me. I am coming.
I woke to blinding lights and machines screaming.
My stomach heaved violently. A tube was shoved down my throat again. I gagged, wanting to rip it out, but my hands were restrained. A doctor’s face appeared above me.
“She’s awake. Keep her sedated.”
No. I tried to scream but only a weak, broken sound escaped around the tube. Tears burned my eyes as the brutal truth crashed over me.
I had failed.
The realization carved a fresh wound deeper than any of the others. I didn’t want to be saved. I wanted to disappear. I wanted the hurting to stop.
Instead, I was still here.
Janet appeared in my blurred vision, her face pale and hollow with exhaustion.
“Harper… why, sweetheart? Why would you do that?”
I turned my face away as much as the restraints allowed. Fresh tears slipped down my cheeks.
I had been so close. And now I had to start all over again.
Three days later, they transferred me to the psychiatric ward. The questions began immediately and never really stopped.
“Do you have a plan to harm yourself again?”
“Do you intend to make another attempt?”
“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your current desire to die?”
I answered whatever I thought would make them leave me alone. Once, when a kind-eyed psychiatrist asked if I planned to try again, I muttered, “I doubt it.”
Wrong answer.
Six months of constant observation followed.
Every minute scheduled and monitored: breakfast, group therapy, lunch, individual therapy, dinner, more group therapy.
I sat in circles with broken strangers and spoke as little as possible while they cried over things I couldn’t bring myself to care about.
I was surrounded by people and had never felt more alone.
Brian visited often after my suicide attempt.
He never asked how I was feeling. Never brought flowers or cards or any of the empty gestures people usually offered.
Instead, he brought books — thick volumes on history, strategy, survival.
He left them on the nightstand and sat in the chair by the window, waiting for me to speak.
I didn’t. Not for weeks.
He kept coming anyway.
One afternoon during my third month in the ward, I finally broke the silence.
“How did you do it?” I asked. “How did you make me dead?”
Brian studied me for a long moment before answering, choosing his words carefully.
“The fire burned hot enough to destroy most of the evidence. They found your mother and Harmony quickly. When they started searching for a third body, I gave them one.”
I waited.
“I placed partial remains under the debris,” he continued. “Burned. Consistent with a thirteen-year-old girl. I made sure the DNA matched.”
I didn’t ask where he got the remains. Something in his eyes told me I didn’t want to know.
“Three victims,” he said. “Case filed as a triple homicide. It went cold fast. No one is looking for a survivor because there isn’t one.”
He leaned forward slightly. “You were listed as Jane Doe in the first hospital. I erased that record. Moved you here under a new name. New state. As far as anyone here knows, you’re Harper James — my wife’s niece who survived a home invasion.”
"How?" I asked.
Brian was silent for a moment. “I spent twenty years in the Navy before I retired. Then I started a security company.” He shrugged. “You meet a lot of people along the way. Some owe you favors. Some just answer when you call.”
“You can just... make records disappear?”
"Not usually." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Sometimes knowing who to call is enough."
“And the cops?” I asked.
“The hospital had to report your injuries. I made sure the right officers showed up. They came, checked the box, and filed nothing. As far as anyone here knows, your case is being investigated. It isn’t.”
The words settled over me like cold stone. Everything had been neatly buried. Me included.
“The men who did this,” I said quietly. “Do you know who they are?”
Brian’s expression hardened. “No. What do you remember of that night?”
“Thomas,” I said, the name tasting like poison. “He was in charge. Said my father owed him money. A loan. Mom didn’t even know about it.”
Brian pulled out a small notebook. “Tell me everything.”
I did. Every detail I could stomach.
Over the following weeks, Brian returned with stacks of photographs and files. I went through them slowly, one by one, until my finger stopped on a face that made my blood freeze.
“Him.”
Brian nodded. “Thomas Black. Local pack alpha and property developer.”
It took nearly a month to identify the rest—Colt, John, Richard. Brian kept coming back with new files, each one filling in another piece of their lives. Connections. Finances. Territories. What we found was ugly but unsurprising.
The loan had been real, but the terms were engineered to be impossible.
Thomas hadn’t come for money. He had come for the land.
My family’s farm sat on prime territory he’d been trying to consolidate for years.
With no surviving heirs to fight the claim, he’d taken the farm before my mother and sister were even cold in the ground.
The system had handed him exactly what he wanted.
I read the final file in silence. When I looked up, something inside me had changed. The grief was still there, but it had hardened into something sharper. Colder. Hungrier.
“I want them dead,” I said.
Brian didn’t look surprised. He didn’t lecture me about justice or healing or how revenge wouldn’t bring my family back. He simply watched me.
“I can arrange it,” he said.
“No.” My voice was steady. “I want to do it myself. I want them to see my face. I want them to know exactly who I am before they die.”
The room fell quiet. Brian studied me for a long time, measuring the girl in front of him.
“Then you have a lot to learn,” he finally said. “And you’re going to need to be very patient.”
"Learn what?"
"Everything. How to fight. How to plan. How to get to people who think they're untouchable." He leaned back. "There will always be someone bigger and meaner. But if you work hard, I can teach you how to take any one of them apart."
I met his eyes. “Teach me.”