Page 67 of Where The Devil Kneels

Three hours. Four. Five. I lose count. People come and go, nurses offering coffee, social workers checking if I need anything, police officers hovering at the periphery, waiting to take statements. I answer their questions in monosyllables, my focus never leaving the double doors where they took him.

The lights flicker now and then, and I flinch each time. Whenever those doors open, my heart jumps, hoping for news, hoping it’s Dr. Rao, hoping for anything that will end this. But it’s never for me. It’s never about Silas.

“Please,” I whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever force might be listening. “Please let him live. I just found him. I can’t lose him now.”

The lights buzz overhead, never letting up. I catch my reflection in the polished floor: hair wild, clothes stained, dark circles under my eyes. I barely recognize myself. But I’m not the same person who arrived at that house weeks ago. The Elara who first walked through those doors could never have imagined this—standing in a hospital hallway, covered in the blood of a man who lives inside her walls, praying to gods she’s never believed in.

“Ms. Hale?” A different nurse approaches, holding a clipboard. “There are forms that need filling out. Insurance information, medical history…” He hesitates. “Do you have any of that for Mr. Merrick?”

The question stops me completely. Of course I don’t have any of that. Silas has spent decades outside the system — no insurance, no medical records, probably no valid ID. How do you even begin to explain that the man bleeding out on an operating table has spent most of his life being a ghost?

“I…” I start, but the words stick in my throat like shards of glass.

The nurse must see the panic in my eyes. “Later is fine,” he says gently. “Right now, just focus on being here for him.”

That, at least, I can do. So I resume my vigil, pacing the sterile corridor while fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across my exhausted face, waiting for the man who stepped between me and death to find his way back to me.

Hours blur together in the hospital’s waiting room, where time seems to operate by different rules, stretching and contracting without warning.

The plastic chair has found every wrong angle in my body, digging into my spine, numbing my legs. I can’t sit still for long. Every ten minutes I’m up again, wearing a path between the coffee machine and the nurses’ station, asking the same question, getting the same answer: “He’s still in surgery. We’ll let you know.” My knuckles throb where the skin split against Garrow’s jaw — this dull, constant ache that keeps reminding me what I did, what I was capable of. I keep staring at my hands. There’s still dried blood under my cuticles even after I scrubbed them raw in the bathroom sink. Some of it is Silas’s. Some of it is mine. Mingled together on my skin like they belong there.

Around hour three, a nurse pushes a sandwich toward me. I take it because it feels rude not to, but I can’t eat. The thought of it makes my stomach turn. I end up just tearing the bread apart, smaller and smaller pieces, until there’s a little pile of crumbs on the table in front of me that feels embarrassingly accurate to how I’m doing right now.

The automatic doors slide open with a whoosh, and I look up to see two men and a woman in county police uniforms. Behind them, Jonah hovers like a nervous shepherd, his uniform rumpled from what must have been a sleeplessnight. The woman, tall, with prematurely grey hair cropped close to her scalp, approaches me directly.

“Ms. Hale? I’m Detective Warners, County Major Crimes. We need to take your statement about what happened at your property this morning.”

I nod, gesturing vaguely at the empty chairs around me. What does it matter now? Let them ask their questions. Nothing seems important except the double doors hiding Silas from me.

“Can you walk us through the events leading up to Mr. Garrow’s assault on you?” she asks, notepad ready, pen poised.

I start with the basics: Garrow’s arrival, the explosion, the hostage situation with Marta. My voice sounds flat to my own ears, just listing facts without feeling, like I’m describing something that happened to someone else.

When I get to the knife, my throat just closes. I can’t make the words come out — the arc of the blade, Silas moving between us before I even understood what was happening, the sound it made. Detective Warners doesn’t push. She just waits, watching me with the kind of careful attention that doesn’t miss much.

“And how did Mr. Garrow gain access to your home?” one of the other officers asks, his tone slightly more aggressive. “Our initial assessment shows evidence of hidden passages and unusual security systems throughout the property.”

Before I can answer, Jonah steps forward, seemingly materializing from thin air. When had he gotten here? “Let’s focus on Garrow’s attack,” he interjects smoothly. “The estate’s architectural features aren’t relevant to the assault charges.”

The officer’s eyes narrow. “When a property contains elaborate hidden passages that aren’t on any official blueprints, I’d say that’s extremely relevant.”

“Those passages were part of the original construction,” I say, finding my voice again. “Historic features that my family maintained. There’s nothing illegal about a house having secrets.”

Detective Warners raises an eyebrow but makes a note. “And Mr. Merrick’s residence within these passages?”

“He was employed by my grandmother as the estate’s caretaker,” I reply, the half-truth coming easily. “His living arrangements were part of his compensation.”

Jonah catches my eye briefly, a silent nod of approval at the simplified explanation that gives nothing away about centuries-old covenants or guardian duties.

The questions continue, about Garrow’s motivations, about the ritual elements, about the documents Nora presented to the townspeople. I answer astruthfully as I can without exposing the estate’s full history or Silas’s unusual position. By the time they finally seem satisfied, exhaustion weighs on me like a physical presence.

“We’ll need a formal statement later,” Detective Warners says, tucking away her notepad. “For now, rest. Garrow’s in custody, and there’ll be officers stationed here at the hospital as a precaution.”

As they leave, another familiar figure appears in the doorway. Maeve stands there, looking utterly unlike herself. Her perfectly pressed suits and immaculate hair have been replaced by wrinkled clothes and a messy ponytail. A leather portfolio is clutched under her arm like a shield, and her hands tremble slightly as she approaches.

“Elara,” she says, stopping a few feet away as if uncertain of her welcome. “How is he?”

“Still in surgery,” I reply, too tired for hostility. “What are you doing here, Maeve?”