Chapter 133
Chapter 133:
Alistair signaled to his men. Two of them went to the basement door and dragged Timothy Hayes up. He was conscious, but barely. His face was a ruin of bruises, and he walked with a limp that suggested a broken knee.
“He comes with me,” Alistair stated.
“Where?” Arthur asked, not really wanting to know.
“Somewhere the police won’t find him for a very long time,” Alistair said. “Consider it a favor. If he went to jail, Skye would have to testify. I prefer she forget his face p>
Alistair walked to the door. He stopped by Arthur’s chair.
“You are lucky, Arthur,” Alistair said quietly. “You are lucky she has a heart. If it were up to me, I would burn this house down with you inside it p>
He didn’t wait for a response. He walked out into the rain. The heavy oak door closed with a final thud, sealing the tomb of the Sterling family.
The smell of antiseptic was the first thing to hit her. It was sharp, clean, and utterly devoid of the metallic tang of blood.
Skye opened her eyes. The ceiling was white. The sheets were high-thread-count cotton. A machine beeped rhythmically to her left, syncing with the slow, heavy thud of her heart. She was not in the Sterling Manor anymore. She was in a private suite at St. Jude’s Hospital.
She tried to sit up, but her body revolted. A wave of nausea rolled through her gut, forcing her to squeeze her eyes shut as the room tilted dangerously. The aftereffects of the high-dose ketamine were brutal; her limbs felt like they were filled with lead, and her coordination was shot.
She looked at her right hand. It was bandaged neatly, white gauze stark against her pale skin. She shifted her legs under the sheets and winced. A sharp, familiar ache radiated from her ankle, the old injury from the warehouse aggravated by the struggle in the dining room.
“Ms. Sterling p>
A nurse in blue scrubs entered the room, checking the monitors. “Please, lie down. You’ve had a significant shock to your system. Your blood pressure is still stabilizing p>
“Where is he?” Skye asked. Her voice was raspy. She didn’t need to specify who he was.
𝖮𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾.𝖼𝗈𝗆
“Mr. Thorne brought you in,” the nurse said, her tone softening. “He stayed until your vitals stabilized. He left about an hour ago. He said he had… matters to finish p>
Matters. Skye closed her eyes. She knew what that meant. She hoped Timothy Hayes was still alive, if only so he could suffer in prison.
“I need to leave,” Skye said, pushing the blanket off. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, hissing through her teeth as her injured ankle took her weight. She grabbed the bedside rail for support.
“Ms. Sterling, the doctor hasn’t p>
“I need to go home,” Skye insisted, gritting her teeth against the dizziness. “My clothes p>
“Mr. Thorne left these for you.” The nurse pointed to a garment bag hanging on the door.
Inside was a soft cashmere sweater, leggings, and comfortable boots with arch support designed to ease the pressure on her foot. Everything was her size. Everything was practical. It was an outfit chosen by someone who understood that she needed comfort, not armor, right now.