Page 83 of Blind Justice

The storm raged outside, wind howling through the trees like a warning. But to Noah, it was protection. No one would come for them in this weather. No one could.

Neither man slept. Noah had stopped counting the hours and checking the time. Time didn’t matter when every second felt like a war. Ruth lay in the bed, too still, her skin pale, her breaths shallow. He forced himself to stop counting each one. He had to do something else. Anything. So, he worked.

His fingers moved steadily over the keyboard, his mind forcing itself to focus on cracking the rest of the files. He couldn't sit there helpless. He couldn’t just watch.

Paul worked too. The small makeshift lab was scattered across the kitchen table, test tubes, chemicals, and medical kits spread in a desperate attempt to figure out why Ruth wasn’t responding. He muttered under his breath, going through differential diagnoses, ruling things out, checking, rechecking. Every possibility was worse than the last.

Noah watched him. If Ruth died, deep down, he knew he would blame himself. Because he had gotten her into this. Because she was suffering, and he couldn’t stop it. If she died—he’d never forgive himself.

A gust of wind slammed against the cabin. The fire crackled in the hearth. Ruth’s breath hitched slightly. Noah’s heart clenched.

Paul’s head snapped up, eyes sharp, scanning the monitors. Noah didn’t breathe.

Waiting. Hoping.

Paul’s jaw tightened. His voice was hoarse. “She’s still with us.”

Noah exhaled slowly. The storm outside raged on.

Noah barely blinked as he stared at the screen of his laptop, his fingers moving steadily over the keyboard. The thumb drive sat connected to the computer, the small black device he hoped held the answers he desperately needed. The encryption was military-grade, and it wasn’t budging easily. But he had been breaking through defenses his entire career. He just needed time. Time that Ruth might not have.

Behind him, Paul sat at Ruth’s bedside, his brow furrowed in concentration. He had spent the last hour running tests, checking vitals, searching for what was making her decline. Noah could feel the tension rolling off him. Something was wrong.

Paul muttered a curse under his breath.

Noah’s fingers paused over the keyboard. “What is it?”

Paul didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gently pushed down Ruth’s covers and lowered her gown. As he stared at her, exposed, his jaw tightened.

Noah stood, moving closer. “Paul?”

Paul exhaled sharply. “Petechiae.”

Noah frowned. “Come again?”

Paul turned to him. “Tiny red spots under the skin. They’re a sign of internal bleeding.”

Noah’s stomach dropped.Bleeding? From what?

Paul ran a hand down his face. “She’s seriously anemic. Her body isn’t clotting properly. That means one of two things—DIC or an anticoagulant.”

“What’s that?”

Paul sighed. “DIC, it’s the body losing the ability to clot. Or it’s a drug in her body. The first option—she won’t survive.”

Noah’s pulse kicked up. “The fake nurse.”

Paul nodded grimly. “Yeah. Sad to say, but that’s the better choice. She didn’t justtryto inject something into her IV. She actually got to her.”

Noah clenched his fists. “How?”

Paul’s gaze scanned every inch of Ruth’s fragile frame, searching for something—anything. Then, suddenly, his eyes locked onto the cast protecting her fractured wrist.

Noah saw it too. And realization hit.

Paul’s expression darkened. “I need a saw.”

Noah moved fast, grabbing a small medical saw from the supply kit. Paul worked carefully but quickly, cutting along the length of the fiberglass cast encasing Ruth’s arm.

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