Page 20 of Never Quite Gone

“What's your angle here?” Marcus leaned over the desk, his eyes sharp as he studied the letter.

“It's not an angle.” Frustration burned in my throat, hot as whiskey. The letter blurred under my grip as I fought the maddening sense of something crucial hovering just beyond reach. “Vale was there last night. At the bar. Like he was waiting. But something about it feels wrong – like a warning I can't quite remember.”

Marcus claimed the leather chair across from my desk with his usual calculated grace. Steam curled from his coffee cup as he studied me, his silence heavy with unasked questions. “Vale's called an emergency board meeting,” he said finally, each word carefully measured. “He's questioning Eli's fitness to serve as department chief.”

The letter crumpled in my fist, ancient paper protesting. Manhattan's lights pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, a constellation of artificial stars fighting against the approaching dawn.

“Vale's running on pure instinct,” I muttered, watching my reflection fracture across the glass. “Following a scent he can't explain.”

Marcus slid a thick file across my desk's polished surface. “He's digging into the hospital's history. His research – it's not just academic anymore. Look at these papers.”

The dossier painted a disturbing picture. Vale's recent publications revealed an obsession poorly disguised as scientific inquiry: studies on memory persistence after clinical death, theories about consciousness existing outside linear time, investigations into trauma and recovered memories.

“Fuck. He's not just digging for dirt on Eli.”

“The board meeting isn't just about leadership,” Marcus confirmed, his tone carrying a warning. “Vale's pushing for accessto historical records. Claims it's for the hospital's centennial, but he's fixated on that missing period – the same gap Will found.”

I turned from the window, the city's artificial light casting strange shadows across the scattered papers. “The way Vale watches Eli, those calculated little jabs – it's not just professional rivalry. There's something personal there, something raw.”

“And William?” Marcus's question hung in the air like smoke.

“Will’s research wasn't random.” I shuffled through the letters until I found the passage that had kept me up half the night. “Of all the hospital's history to study, he zeroed in on exactly the period that's keeping me awake. That's not coincidence.”

“The timing is concerning,” Marcus acknowledged, setting his empty cup aside. “Vale's sudden interest, Will's discoveries, Eli's... situation. Something's shifting.”

“He could destroy everything.” The words tasted like ash.

Marcus stood, adjusting his cuffs with mechanical precision. “The board meeting is in four hours. Vale will use it to force a competency review.”

“Let him try.” Steel crept into my voice, cold as the approaching dawn. “I didn't come this far to let Vale's games ruin everything.”

“And if pushing too hard makes things worse?” Marcus's question carried the weight of genuine concern. “If some doors are better left closed?”

I looked down at the scattered letters, each one a puzzle piece that refused to fit. The sky outside was shifting from black to steel, promise and threat wrapped in the same gray light. “Some truths refuse to stay buried, old friend. Even the ones that hurt.”

The office door flew open with enough force to rattle the whiskey glasses on my credenza. Will burst in like a hedge fund manager who'd just spotted a market crash coming, his Hermès tie crookedand his usually perfect hair showing signs of stress-induced fingers running through it.

“Dad's called an emergency family meeting,” he announced, already pacing the Persian rug with manic energy. The morning light caught the edge of his expensive watch, sending fractured reflections dancing across the wall.

“Jesus, not this shit again.” The words came out sharper than intended. I watched my younger brother prowl the office like a caged animal, something raw and uncomfortable stirring in my chest at his obvious distress.

Will's restless circuit brought him to my desk. His eyes caught on the scattered papers, ancient letterhead peeking out between modern financial reports. Something flickered across his face – confusion bleeding into recognition, like someone trying to read a half-remembered language. “This is about him, isn't it?” The question came out soft, uncertain.

The leather of my chair creaked as I leaned back, studying the man who'd somehow become my strongest ally in all this mess. “Remember those weird stories Gran used to tell?” I kept my voice casual, watching his reaction. “About the doctor who saved her grandfather? The one that ended badly?”

Will's hand went to his temple, a gesture I'd seen a thousand times when he was wrestling with complex merger negotiations. “Something about all this feels...” He trailed off, frustration evident in the tight line of his jaw.

An hour later, we stood in the Rothschild family boardroom – all mahogany panels and old money pretension, portraits of dead patriarchs staring down with painted disapproval. Dad occupied his usual spot at the head of the table, radiating the particular brand of concern unique to billionaire fathers watching their heir apparent go off-script.

“This personal tour with Dr. Monroe,” Dad cut through my careful presentation about urban development and healthcare infrastructure. “Was it really necessary?”

I met his gaze, recognizing the worry behind the corporatefacade. The man had built an empire from his father's already considerable fortune – he knew how to spot potential threats to the family legacy. “Dr. Monroe's insights are crucial to the project's success,” I replied, keeping my voice steady despite the headache building behind my eyes.

“This isn't about property development.” Dad's words carried the weight of sleepless nights spent wondering where he'd gone wrong. “This is about your... unusual fixations.”

Will shifted in his Italian leather chair, a slight wince crossing his features like he'd caught the edge of a migraine. The morning sun through the floor-to-ceiling windows cast strange shadows across the polished table, turning the whole scene slightly surreal.

“Everything I do is for this family,” I said, the words tasting like copper on my tongue.

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