Chapter 3

Carma sat across from the sanatorium director, her bruised feet now tucked into a pair of soft silk slippers provided by the facility's panicked staff. She slid a thick, cream-colored business card across the mahogany desk-a token she had pulled from the official courier envelope delivered just an hour ago, following the Senate's intervention. The gold foil seal of the United States Senate gleamed under the desk lamp, bearing the name of Senator Lawson, the Majority Leader whose influence had turned her captors into servants.

"My life is in danger," Carma said, her voice flat and leaving no room for negotiation. "I want an immediate transfer to the St. Jude Retreat." The director looked at the card, sweat beading on his forehead. The political pressure from Washington, channeled through Lawson's office, was suffocating. He nodded quickly, eager to pass the liability of the Kirk heiress to someone else.

Two hours later, Carma sat in the back of an armored SUV, her luggage finally restored to her. The vehicle tore through the winding Alpine roads, leaving the police sirens far behind. Inside her regained leather tote sat a sleek, encrypted micro-laptop-a tool Lawson's fixer had covertly slipped into her bag during the frantic packing process at the sanatorium.

They arrived at St. Jude, a fortress-like stone castle hidden in the mountains, designed for politicians and billionaires to dry out in absolute secrecy. Carma was escorted to a heavy stone suite. The moment the door clicked shut, she locked the deadbolt and performed a practiced sweep for listening devices, unscrewing the bedside lamp bulb to check the socket.

Finding the room clean, she booted up the laptop. She didn't have a thumb drive of future recordings; instead, she used the high-speed satellite uplink to access secure servers she only knew existed because of her future memories. She initiated a deepfake audio rendering program, feeding it fresh streams of Johnie's current phone calls she had just intercepted using backdoors that wouldn't be patched for another three years. While the processor hummed, she sat at the heavy oak desk and began to write in a small, black notebook found in her luggage. Using a rapid shorthand cipher, she listed every enemy in Washington, their bank accounts, and their fatal flaws.

When her pen scratched out the name Christel, her stepsister, the searing hatred from her previous life surged. Her grip tightened until the pen tip tore through the thick paper. Suddenly, heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed on the carpet outside her door, stopping exactly in front of her room.

Carma stopped breathing. She shoved the notebook under the mattress, grabbed a leather-bound Bible from the desk, and dropped into an armchair with her head bowed. A sharp knock sounded, and the retreat manager opened the door, looking pale.

Behind him stood a tall, broad-shouldered Asian man in a tailored black trench coat. Carma's heart plummeted as her fingernails dug into the Bible's leather cover. It was Dion Olsen, the ruthless federal prosecutor from the Department of Justice who had been her primary tormentor in the interrogation rooms of her past life.

Dion's dark, predatory eyes swept the room and locked onto Carma. He tilted his head, his gaze dropping to her white-knuckled grip on the holy book. "Mr. Olsen is with the DOJ," the manager stammered. "Investigating a money laundering case tied to the east wing. He insisted on interviewing all recent transfers."

Dion offered a brief nod. "Are you the Kirk heiress? The one involved in the murder investigation down in the valley?" His voice was a low, magnetic rumble that sent a chill through Carma's chest. She forced her muscles to relax, letting her eyes widen in perfect, fragile fear. "I don't know anything," she whispered. "My family sent me away. I'm just sick."

Dion took two slow steps into the room, watching the subtle tightening of her jaw with a faint, dangerous smirk. The manager nervously backed out and closed the door. The air in the stone room crackled with unspoken tension. "You look at me like you know me," Dion said softly, towering over her. "Like you're bracing for a hit."

Carma lowered her head, letting her dark hair hide her eyes. "Do all federal prosecutors enjoy cornering sick women?" Dion let out a low, rough laugh and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a crisp white card and leaned down, the scent of cedar and cold rain washing over her.

He pressed the card flat against the Bible, right over her trembling fingers. "The Kirk family has powerful, untouchable enemies," Dion murmured, his breath brushing her ear with calculated precision. "If you decide you want to talk to one of them, you know how to find the Department of Justice." He straightened up and walked out, leaving Carma to collapse back into her chair. She picked up the card, her eyes hardening; she would turn this federal hound into her sharpest blade.