Chapter 40
Olivia
Trust is a fragile thing.
It builds slowly, quietly, over time—through consistency, through presence, through moments where someone chooses to believe you’ll show up when it matters.
And now I’m about to use that trust as leverage.
The realization sits uneasily with me as I stare at the name on the screen, lingering over it longer than I should.
It isn’t because I’m trying to remember him.
I don’t need to. I recognize the name immediately, and that recognition comes with a weight I wasn’t prepared for.
To Rico and Dario, Ethan Cole is nothing more than another name on a list, another patient whose records might contain a piece of whatever this operation has been building.
To me, he is a person I know, someone whose history I remember without having to search for it.
“Ethan Cole,” I say quietly.
Neither man reacts the way I expect. There is no flicker of recognition, no shift in either expression, because to them the name carries no meaning beyond the information attached to it. Rico studies me instead, catching the change in my voice before he looks back at the screen.
“You know him,” he says.
It isn’t a question, and I don’t bother pretending otherwise. I nod once, keeping my gaze on the name even though I can feel both men watching me now.
“Yes.”
“How well?”
I hesitate, not because I don’t know the answer, but because saying it aloud changes the situation.
It makes Ethan more than a convenient entry point into a larger investigation.
It means I know him well enough that approaching him under false pretenses would feel like a betrayal, and I know him well enough to understand that if someone has been watching him, there may be more at stake than whatever information they pulled from his file.
I finally lift my gaze to Rico.
“Well enough that he’ll trust me,” I say.
The words are simple, but none of us misses what they mean.
His trust is exactly why I can reach him, and that is precisely what makes using it feel wrong.
I have spent my career building relationships with patients around honesty, confidence, and the understanding that when they come to me, they are safe.
Now I am being asked to turn one of those relationships into an opening.
Rico’s expression remains unreadable, but his eyes stay fixed on mine. “And will he talk to you?”
“If he thinks I’m checking on him as his doctor, yes.”
“And if he realizes there’s more to it?”
I look back at Ethan’s name on the screen. “Then I’ll have to make sure he never gets the chance to realize it until we know what we’re dealing with.”
The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth, because I know exactly what I’m agreeing to. This isn’t simply about asking questions. It is about approaching someone who trusts me and using that trust to uncover something he may not even know he is carrying.
For the first time, I understand just how far this operation has reached into my life.
They didn’t simply choose my patients.
They chose the relationships I built with them.
And now I have to use one of those relationships to find out why.
“He was one of my most complex cases,” I say. “Severe trauma. Brought in under restricted intake. No official record until after stabilization.”
“Meaning he was already off-grid,” Dario says.
“Yes.”
“And you kept him that way.”
“I kept him alive,” I correct.
The distinction matters to me, even if it doesn’t matter to them.
There is a difference between trusting someone and knowing that someone trusts you, and right now I’m painfully aware of which side of that equation I’m standing on.
Ethan doesn’t have to trust me because I am asking him to believe in something he can’t see.
I only have to know that he trusts me enough to listen when I tell him he is in danger.
“Can you reach him?” Rico asks.
I don’t answer immediately. The question marks the point where all of this stops being theory and becomes action, and once we take that step, there is no going back to simply studying the information on a screen. “Yes,” I say finally.
“How?”
“He has a direct line. One I gave him when he was discharged.”
“For emergencies?”
“Yes.”
“And this qualifies.”
It does. In more ways than one.
“You trust him?” Dario asks.
I shake my head slightly. “That’s not the question.”
“Then what is?”
“Whether he trusts me.”
The silence that follows tells me they understand the distinction.
Trust only works in one direction when you are the person asking someone else to take a risk.
I know what Ethan is capable of. I know how cautious he has become.
What I don’t know is whether the relationship we built before any of this happened is strong enough to survive what I am about to ask of him.
“Call him,” Rico says.
There is no hesitation in his voice, and there is no room for delay.
Time is no longer on our side, so I pick up the phone and dial Ethan’s number.
My hand remains steady, and my breathing doesn’t change.
The action itself is familiar, almost routine, even if the circumstances surrounding it are anything but.
I have spent years calling patients, checking on them, reassuring them, answering questions they were afraid to ask.
This time, I am calling to tell one of them that the danger he has been avoiding is real.
The line rings once, twice, and then his voice comes through.
“Dr. Hale?”
He sounds clear and alert, but there is something else beneath the words, something that immediately catches my attention. He doesn’t sound surprised to hear from me. If anything, he sounds as though he has been expecting the call.
That isn’t good.
“Ethan,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “I need you to listen carefully.”
There is a brief pause. “That bad?”
“Yes.”
I don’t soften it. We don’t have time for reassurance that isn’t true, and Ethan has already lived through enough uncertainty to know when someone is trying to make something sound less serious than it is.
“I figured you’d call eventually,” he says.
The words hit harder than I expect.
“What do you know?”
“Enough to know I’m not safe.”
For a moment, I say nothing. That single sentence confirms more than I wanted it to. Ethan knows something is happening, which means whatever has been following these people has already begun to surface beyond the records we found.
“Where are you?”
“Not where I was yesterday.”
Smart. Careful. Exactly what I would have hoped he would do.
But it isn’t enough.
“I need you to come in.”
“No.”
The answer comes instantly.
“You don’t understand—”
“I understand exactly,” he interrupts. “Which is why I’m not walking into a controlled environment right now.”
“He’s right,” Rico says quietly beside me.
I ignore him. “Ethan, if you don’t come in, I can’t help you.”
“You already did.”
The words are quiet, almost matter-of-fact, but they carry more weight than he probably realizes. I helped him once, and he remembers it. Maybe that is why he answered the phone. Maybe that is why he hasn’t hung up yet.
“Things have changed,” I tell him.
“I know.”
“Then you know this isn’t optional.”
There is a longer pause on the other end. I can almost hear him weighing the decision, trying to determine whether coming toward us is safer than staying where he is. Finally, he asks the question I knew was coming.
“And you think coming to you fixes that?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “But it gives us a chance to.”
The silence that follows feels heavier because this is no longer a simple conversation between doctor and patient.
It is a negotiation, and we are both aware of what is at stake.
I need him to trust me enough to step into a situation he has every reason to fear, while he needs a reason to believe that I am not simply leading him into another trap.
“What aren’t you telling me?” he asks.
Everything, I think. Too much. Not enough. There are still pieces of this I don’t understand myself, and yet I know I have to give him something real if I expect him to take the risk.
“You’re not the only one on that list.”
I hear his breathing change.
“How many?”
“Enough.”
“And they’re all like me?”
“Yes.”
Another silence follows, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter.
“They’re going to come for us.”
“Yes.”
Not if. When.
“Then why would I walk toward that?” he asks.
“Because we already are.”
The truth settles between us, and there is no argument I can make against it.
There is no safe direction anymore. Running only changes the location of the danger.
Hiding only gives whoever is watching more time to find you.
The only advantage we have is that, for the first time, we understand enough to stop moving blindly.
“You’re asking me to trust you,” Ethan says.
“Yes.”
“After everything I’ve been avoiding.”
“Yes.”
He exhales slowly. “Give me a reason.”
There it is. The line that decides whether this works or fails.
I close my eyes for a brief second, then open them and look at Rico. He is watching me without interrupting, waiting to see what I will say. I turn my attention back to the call.
“Because I’m the only one who knows what they’re after.”
Rico’s expression shifts slightly. Dario remains still, but I know both men understand the weight of what I’ve just said.
“And what is that?” Ethan asks.
I hesitate, not because I don’t know the answer anymore, but because I’m only now beginning to understand what it means.
“They’re not after what you were,” I say slowly. “They’re after what you became.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re not just a survivor,” I tell him. “You’re part of something they built.”
His breathing catches faintly on the other end.
“And you think you can stop it?”
“No.”
The answer comes without hesitation because I refuse to give him another empty promise. “I think we can understand it before they use it.”
For several seconds, neither of us speaks. Then Ethan finally exhales.
“Send me a location.”
The decision isn’t blind, and it isn’t complete trust, but it is enough.
“I will.”
The line disconnects.
I lower the phone slowly, staring at the dark screen for a moment before looking back at Rico and Dario.
“He’s coming.”
Rico nods once. “Good.”
Dario exhales and turns toward the systems. “Then we set the meeting.”
I nod, already thinking through every variable we need to control before Ethan arrives.
We aren’t chasing answers anymore. We are bringing one of the people who may hold them directly into the center of the investigation, and whatever Ethan Cole knows about the network connecting these patients could change everything we thought we understood.
For the first time, we aren’t following their trail.
We are making them come to us.