Page 92 of Blind Justice

“Yes,” he answered impatiently.

“Sir, I’m going to connect you with Mr. Ellison’s secretary. Please hold.”

“Blake Ellison’s office, Kay speaking. How may I help you?”

“Kay, this is Maxim Fairchild. I’m a client of Dylan’s. What’s going on?” he demanded.

She inhaled deeply. “Mr. Fairchild, I’m sorry to inform you Mr. Grant was found dead this morning. Mr. Ellison is taking over Mr. Grant’s clients.”

“Dear God. How? He always seemed so healthy.” Maxim began to sweat.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not permitted to disclose any private information. We will post his funeral arrangements when we know.”

“Thank you, Kay. As soon as I put my thoughts together, I’ll call for that appointment.”

He hung up. His heart was going to explode. Dylan knew the extent of his crimes. Did he tell anyone?

Thirty-Five

Noah held his breath as Paul carefully removed the pressure monitor from Ruth’s skull. The past forty-eight hours had been an agonizing watch-and-wait game, but her intracranial pressure had remained stable. Her incision looked good, her pupils were reactive, and there were no external signs of swelling. Yet, her vision remained absent.

Noah’s heart twisted in his chest as he tucked a loose strand of Ruth’s hair behind her ear. She was exhausted, her body drained from the trauma and the relentless fight to heal. Even as he whispered reassuring words, promising her rest, recovery, and a future where she’d be okay, he wasn’t sure she believed it. He wasn’t surehebelieved it.

As soon as Ruth slipped back into sleep, Noah grabbed Paul by the arm and dragged him into the kitchen. He then turned on the loud exhaust fan above the stovetop. His pulse pounded, his hands trembling as he turned to his brother, desperation thick in his voice. “How is she—really? I need the truth, Paul. Please.”

Paul exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “Noah, you know I’m not a neurosurgeon. But I can tell you this—she’s getting the best care possible, even if we’re in a house instead of a hospital.”

“That’s not good enough.” Noah’s voice was sharp, almost a growl. He needed certainty, not comfort.

Paul nodded, conceding. “The swelling’s gone down. She’s exhausted but lucid. Her memory’s mostly intact, and there aren’t any other neurological deficits.” He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “But…”

Noah felt that single word press into his chest.But.

“She still can’t see,” Paul admitted finally. “And something about that isn’t right.”

Noah clenched his fists. “Duh, Paul. I know that much.” His voice was dripping with frustration, but beneath it was raw fear.

Paul shook his head. “No, I mean something’s really wrong. She needs a CT scan.”

Noah’s stomach lurched. He already knew that, but hearing it spoken out loud made it worse. “What do you think it is?”

Paul hesitated, his expression darkening. “Either there’s more damage than we initially caught, or…” he trailed off.

“Or what, Paul?” Noah’s patience was razor-thin.

Paul met his eyes. “Or it’s psychological.”

Noah’s stomach dropped. “Psychological?” he repeated, almost incredulously.

“You keep saying she sawsomethingbefore the injury. She mentioned an envelope, possibly with the drive in it. Who had access to her office?”

Noah ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “Technically, her bosses: Dylan Grant, Blake Ellison, and Matt Brandt. And her secretary, Melanie.”

Paul leaned forward. “What if she saw something so horrific, so traumatizing, that her mind refuses to let her see at all? What if this isn’t just a physical injury, Noah? What if it’s something else—something she can’t bear to face?”

Noah swallowed hard, his heart hammering. He wanted to deny it. Wanted to argue. Wanted to believe there was a simple medical explanation for all of this. But the fear clawing at his gut whispered otherwise. What did Ruth see? And was she strong enough to remember?

Noah exhaled sharply, his mind racing. He pressed his hands against the counter, steadying himself before turning back to Paul. “I need a few more days,” he said, his voice resolute. “Based on the files we’ve opened, I need time to put the case together. Once it’s solid, I’ll get on the ham radio and notify Brad and Alex that we’re heading home. We can hide at the Blackwell Institute—it’s secure, and Ruth can finally be around family. She needs that.”

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