Chapter 2 - THE PAIN THAT FOLLOWED A CLOCKBy the fourth night, Sloan had noticed something that no specialist had documented.
Raphael's worst episodes happened at 2:13 a.m.
Every night.
Not approximately.
Exactly.
2:13.
At 2:13, his breathing changed.
At 2:14, the muscles in his neck tightened.
At 2:15, he began feeling the invisible foot.
By 2:17, he was screaming.
Sloan tested it without telling him.
On the fifth night, she stayed outside his room and checked the time.
2:12.
Nothing.
2:13.
His body stiffened.
2:14.
His hand gripped the mattress.
Sloan opened the door.
“Don't touch me.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“It started.”
“I know.”
He stared at her.
“How?”
“Because it's 2:14.”
Raphael looked at the clock.
His face became pale.
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
“Why?”
“Because pain doesn't usually wear a watch.”
He said nothing.
Sloan sat beside him.
“Tell me what happens at 2:13.”
“My foot starts burning.”
“What happened at 2:13 on the night of the accident?”
Silence.
Raphael's jaw tightened.
“I don't know.”
“Try.”
“I was driving.”
“You weren't driving.”
“I was in the back.”
“So you remember.”
He stared at the ceiling.
“I remember the boat.”
Sloan frowned.
“The boat?”
Raphael nodded.
“My driver dropped me at the marina after midnight.”
He closed his eyes.
“There was a meeting.”
“With who?”
“I don't know.”
“That seems important.”
“It was supposed to be.”
“What happened?”
“I was waiting.”
He swallowed.
“Then I heard something.”
“What?”
“A metal latch.”
Sloan listened carefully.
“Then?”
“My phone rang.”
“Who called?”
“My younger brother.”
“You have a brother?”
“Had.”
Sloan's expression changed.
Raphael opened his eyes.
“He died two years ago.”
She understood why his voice sounded strange.
“I’m sorry.”
“I didn't answer.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought the meeting was more important.”
A long silence.
“What happened next?”
“My brother's voice came through voicemail.”
“What did he say?”
Raphael's face twisted.
“I'll never tell anyone.”
Sloan studied him.
“You don't have to.”
He looked at her.
“But something changed that night.”
“What?”
“After my brother died, I started hearing his voice when my pain got bad.”
Sloan said nothing.
“He says my name.”
The room seemed colder.
“Raphael.”
His eyes closed.
“Always the same way.”
“How?”
“Like he is standing behind me.”
Sloan slowly reached for the water.
“Do you know what he wants?”
“I think…”
Raphael's voice broke.
“…he wants me to remember something.”
The next morning, Sloan went into the kitchen and found Gus waiting.
“Coffee?”
“Please.”
He poured.
“You've been asking questions.”
Sloan froze.
“I ask everyone questions.”
“Not like this.”
She looked at him.
“What happened to Raphael's brother?”
Gus's face hardened.
“Daniel Moretti died in an apparent overdose.”
“Apparently?”
“That's the official word.”
“And unofficially?”
Gus took a slow breath.
“Daniel believed someone inside the family was stealing from Raphael's companies.”
“Was he right?”
“Yes.”
Sloan waited.
“Who?”
Gus looked toward the door.
“That's what your employer has spent two years trying to discover.”
Sloan suddenly understood.
The accident may not have been random.
The pain may not be merely medical.
Someone might have tried to kill Raphael.
Someone might still be close.
She lowered her voice.
“Do you think Raphael's pain is psychological?”
“No.”
Gus stared at the coffee.
“I think his body is telling him something his mind refuses to hear.”
That afternoon, Sloan went to Raphael's study to collect dirty clothes.
She found three medical binders stacked beside his wheelchair.
Thousands of pages.
Specialists from Boston.
New York.
Baltimore.
Europe.
One doctor had billed the family more than $900,000.
Another had recommended an experimental spinal procedure.
A third had diagnosed severe central neuropathic pain complicated by trauma.
Nothing worked.
Sloan opened the last report.
She stopped.
The doctor had written:
Patient exhibits disproportionate pain response when questioned about events immediately preceding amputation.
Sloan read the sentence twice.
Someone had noticed.
But nobody had asked why.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
Raphael.
“You like reading my private files?”
She closed the folder.
“No.”
“Then why were you?”
“Looking for something.”
“Find it?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
Sloan looked at him.
“This.”
She pointed at the sentence.
He said nothing.
“Why does your pain get worse when somebody asks about the accident?”
“It doesn't.”
“It does.”
“You've been here four days.”
“Five.”
He looked annoyed.
“You've been here five days.”
“You've been counting?”
“No.”
“That sounded like counting.”
His expression softened.
Then tightened again.
“Sloan.”
“Yes?”
“Don't dig.”
“Why?”
“Because people who dig around my family eventually hit a grave.”
She stared at him.
“Are you threatening me?”
“No.”
His voice was quiet.
“I'm warning you.”
Before Sloan could answer, a gunshot sounded downstairs.
Raphael's entire body reacted.
Sloan instinctively ducked.
Security shouted.
Footsteps thundered through the hallway.
Raphael grabbed the wheelchair arms.
“Stay here.”
Sloan looked at him.
“I'm a housekeeper.”
“And I'm telling you to stay here.”
He pushed himself toward the door.
She caught his shoulder.
He froze.
The pain flickered across his face.
“Let go.”
“There's a shooter downstairs.”
“I heard.”
“You can't walk.”
“I can still shoot.”
He reached beneath the chair and pulled a pistol from a hidden compartment.
Sloan stared.
“You keep guns under your wheelchair?”
“Yes.”
“That feels excessive.”
“So does surviving this family.”
The gunshot had created chaos.
Daniel Bishop appeared.
“Mr. Moretti, it was a warning shot. One of the exterior guards found a breach.”
Raphael's expression changed.
“What kind?”
“Someone entered through the east service tunnel.”
Sloan looked at Raphael.
“Tunnel?”
He looked back.
For the first time since she had arrived, genuine alarm entered his eyes.
“Everybody out,” he ordered.
“Why?”
He ignored her.
“Now.”
Daniel grabbed Sloan by the arm.
“Move.”
They reached the hallway.
Raphael followed.
Then another gunshot exploded.
The light above them shattered.
Sloan screamed.
Raphael spun the wheelchair and fired twice into the darkness.
One of the guards shouted.
“Clear!”
But Sloan wasn't looking at the shooter.
She was looking at Raphael.
His right hand was shaking.
Not from fear.
From pain.
And beneath his breath, he was whispering the same name over and over.
“Daniel.”
Sloan's blood ran cold.
Because this time, she heard it clearly.
The dead brother's name.
And somewhere beneath the gunfire and shouting, she realized something terrifying.
May you like
The pain wasn't simply reminding Raphael of his brother.
It was leading him toward a memory.
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