Chapter 8 - Lillian’s Awakening
In the quiet hum of the ICU,
Lillian Prescott opened her eyes.
The world was a blur of white and clinical blue,
and her throat felt like it was filled with broken glass.
She saw Charles sitting by her bed,
his head in his hands,
exhaustion etched into every line of his face.
“Charles?”
she croaked,
the sound barely more than a breath.
He jumped,
his eyes snapping to hers,
and for a moment,
she saw a flash of pure,
unadulterated fear.
“Lillian!
Don't try to talk,
you have a tube in your throat.”
He signaled for the nurse,
his movements frantic,
but Lillian grabbed his sleeve with surprising strength.
She shook her head,
tearing at the tape on her skin.
She needed to speak.
She needed to tell him before the fog returned.
The nurses came,
checked her vitals,
and eventually,
the doctor on duty agreed to remove the ventilator.
As soon as the tube was out,
Lillian coughed,
a harsh,
racking sound that seemed to tear through her chest.
Charles held a cup of water to her lips,
his hand shaking.
“Warren,”
she whispered,
her voice trembling.
“I know what he did,
Charles.”
“We know about the patch,
Lillian.
The police have him.”
Lillian shook her head,
tears welling in her eyes and spilling over.
“Not the patch.
The basement.
I followed him.”
Charles froze,
the water cup suspended in mid-air.
“You saw the lab?”
“I saw the files,
Charles.
The files about you.”
She reached out,
clutching his hand so hard her knuckles turned white.
“He wasn't trying to kill me because of an affair,
Charles.
He was trying to kill me because I found the video.”
“What video,
Lillian?”
“From twenty years ago.
The night of the accident at the lake.
The night the girl died.”
Charles felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead.
The lake.
1994.
A girl named Sarah had drowned during their graduation party.
It had been ruled an accident.
They had all been drinking.
Charles had tried to save her,
but he had been too late.
“He filmed it,
Charles.
He didn't help her.
He stood there with his camera and watched her drown.”
Lillian’s voice was a jagged saw.
“And he’s been using it to keep you in his life ever since.
He’s been drugging you too,
Charles.
Every time we had dinner,
every time you drank his wine.”
The room began to spin.
Charles remembered the blackouts.
The gaps in his memory.
The times he woke up in his own bed with no recollection of how he got there.
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He wasn't the hero of this story.
He was a victim who had been convinced he was a witness.
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