Page 134 of Whispers in the Dark
She paused beside a young woman with a shaved head and bruised arms. Her eyes were clear. “My name is Charlotte,” she said softly. “You’re safe now.”
The woman blinked. Her lips parted. No sound came, but she gave the smallest nod.
Charlotte’s throat tightened. “We’re going to get you help. Real help.”
She stood, exhaling slowly as Ethan approached her. “Forty-two pulled out,” he said. “Six won’t make it through the day. They have cleared a medical ward at Waverly County Hospital and one at Blackwell. And they have a dedicated psychiatric team at Waverly County Hospital and the Blackwell Institute.
Her gaze drifted west toward the Blackwell transport van pulling into the far lot.
“They’re expecting us?”
Ethan followed her look. “Yeah. Tristan and James already cleared it. They’ve got beds open. The Institute’s expanding intake.”
Charlotte said nothing, just started walking.
Blackwell Institute, Secure Intake Wing, 9:19 a.m.
Tristan stood outside the glass room, arms crossed, watching the team inside prep the space. Clean linens. Quiet lighting. One nurse confirmed supplies, while another read over patient files delivered just minutes earlier.
Paul joined him, gloves tucked into his lab coat pocket. “Seven on the way. Three critical.”
Tristan gave a tight nod. “Prep everything. Lock down the west wing. Mara’s room is staying unchanged.”
Paul hesitated. “You think she’ll respond to them?”
“I don’t know,” Tristan admitted. “But she deserves a choice. Maybe seeing she’s not the only one will help.”
At the far end of the hall, Mara Dwyer sat in a windowed room, curled up beneath a heavy blanket. Her eyes were open, watching the light filter in through the blinds. She hadn’t spoken since Brad’s last visit.
But when the gurneys began arriving, when the others were wheeled past her glass door, something in her shifted. She sat up. She watched. And in the silent, careful chaos of rescue, that small movement spoke volumes.
Outside the Institute, 9:34 a.m.
Charlotte leaned against the railing outside the entrance, her clothing streaked with ash and blood. Not hers. But all of it real.
Brad stepped up beside her, holding two paper cups. He handed her one. “Coffee’s crap.”
She took it anyway. “Perfect, then.”
Graham and Noah approached from the SUV. Both looked like they'd aged ten years in one night. Charlotte reached into her jacket and pulled out the flash drive Elias had given her. She held it up, smudged and battered but intact.
“We’ll turn over a sanitized version to the DOJ. Enough for the trials. But the full archive?” Graham raised an eyebrow. “You want to keep it off the grid?”
Charlotte nodded. “Some of what’s in here isn’t about evidence. It’s about truth. What was done. Who survived.Who didn’t. I want it documented. Every name. Every record. Nothing buried. Not again.”
Brad stepped closer. “You want to write it.”
She nodded slowly. “I have to.”
Noah crossed his arms. “So what do we call it?”
Charlotte looked out across the rolling lawn at Blackwell Institute. “Call it what it was,” she said. “A war no one knew was being fought.”
She took a sip of the awful coffee, closed her eyes, and let the sunrise hit her face. It didn’t feel like peace. But it felt like something close.
Waverly County Hospital ICU, Room 3, April 16th, 10:03 a.m.
The sun had officially risen by the time Charlotte returned to the ICU. Her boots tracked ash and dust across the sterile tile, the hallways half-lit with the golden blur of morning. She didn’t stop to check in. The nurses saw her coming and stepped aside with quiet nods. They knew where she belonged.
