Page 94 of Blind Justice

She reached out, catching his hand before he could step away. “Noah,” she whispered. “Read to me?”

She heard his soft exhale, the brief pause before he answered, “Of course.”

She felt him settle onto the chair beside the bed, the familiar crackle of pages as he opened a book. His voice, steady and low, filled the room, carrying the story, but it was his presence that steadied her, not the words.

Ruth shifted beneath the blankets, her grip tightening around his fingers. “Stay,” she murmured, barely above a whisper. “Please, just stay beside me.”

Another pause. A hesitation.

Then he squeezed her hand once before letting go. “I’ll be right back.”

The emptiness he left behind felt immediate, even though she knew he wasn’t truly leaving. She waited, listening for the distant sound of water running. When he finally returned, the scent of clean soap clung to him, and the bed dipped as he lay down beside her.

He was warm. Solid. Within moments, his breathing evened out, and she knew he had fallen asleep.

Ruth turned toward him, pressing closer, letting her fingers drift over his face—his jaw, his cheek, the bridge of his nose. She traced him carefully, committing every contour to memory.

She needed to remember him this way. Needed to hold on to something real in the darkness. With a soft sigh, she nestled her head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Safe.

Finally, she let herself slip into sleep.

Thirty-Six

Ruth’s days blurred together in a quiet rhythm of recovery. Each morning, Noah and Paul helped her through simple exercises to rebuild her strength—slow walks around the house, carefully guided by Noah’s steady hand, followed by small meals to keep her energy up. Every movement felt heavier than it should, her limbs sluggish, as if she were walking through thick fog.

She hated feeling weak. Hated how dependent she had become.

Noah, sensing her frustration, was patient but firm. “You’re doing better,” he reassured her as she rested after another slow lap around the living room. “Two days ago, you could barely stand without swaying.”

Ruth sighed, shifting against the couch cushions. “Doesn’t feel like progress.”

Paul handed her a bottle of water. “It is. Your body’s just catching up to everything it’s been through. Give yourself time.”

Time.

That was all anyone kept telling her. That she needed time to heal. Time to adjust. Time to remember. But time stretched endlessly in the darkness, making every moment feel like an eternity.

When she was awake, Noah never left her side. He guided her through basic tasks, encouraging her to eat, keeping her mind engaged with quiet conversation or reading. He never rushed her, never let her frustration turn into despair.

But when she slept, he slipped away.

* * *

Late at night,when Ruth’s breathing had evened out in the steady rhythm of sleep, Noah moved to the small desk in the corner of the room. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaustion pressing against his skull, but he forced himself to focus.

Fairchild.

The name alone made his jaw tighten with anger.

His notebook was filled with pages of scribbled notes, mapping out every illegal crime Fairchild had committed—extortion, bribery, conspiracy to commit murder. With each piece of evidence, the case against him grew stronger.

But something was still missing.

Ruth’s blindness wasn’t just from her injury—Paul had made that clear. Her mind was blocking something. Something so terrifying, she couldn’t bear to see it.

Noah flipped back through the pages of his notes, scanning the names of individuals who had access to her office before the attack.

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