“That’s strange, because these burns absolutely do not look accidental—and I’ve already called the police up from downstairs.”

My fingers twitched under the scratchy hospital blanket, moving only a fraction of an inch.

That tiny, deliberate signal was more than enough for someone who knew what to look for.

Deep beneath the heavy blanket, through the searing agony of my skin, I felt something far colder than fear settle into my bones. It was patience—finally sharpened into a weapon.

Dr. Cynthia Stone had been my college roommate and my closest confidante.

She knew the exact emergency phrase embedded in my medical directive: Ask about the blue folder.

She touched my wrist for a second to steady me, then turned back to Samuel.