Przyszedłem na zmianę, a mój przełożony powiedział: „Wczoraj pod twoją opieką zmarło 5 pacjentów”.

“This is the pharmacy camera,” he said. “At 11:12 a.m. yesterday—when your credentials were used to dispense potassium chloride.”

I leaned forward.

The footage showed a person in scrubs and a surgical cap. Their face was shadowed. They stood at the medication dispenser, body angled slightly away from the camera.

But the shape—female, around my height, maybe a little shorter, moving with practiced familiarity—made my skin crawl.

Raymond pointed to the left wrist. “See that watch?”

A distinctive bulky watch—dark band, square face.

Barbara’s gaze snapped to me. “Do you wear a watch like that?”

“No,” I said quickly. My throat went dry. “I don’t wear a watch at all.”

Raymond nodded. “Good. That’s something.”

He slid another photo toward us.

“This is Colleen Vance’s Instagram,” he said.

My stomach dropped.

There she was, smiling in a selfie, wearing that exact watch.

A cheap but distinctive square-faced fitness watch on her left wrist.

My breath caught.

Rachel’s voice echoed in my memory: Monsters go to work. They wear badges.

Barbara’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes turned lethal. “This is circumstantial,” she said carefully. “But it’s a very strong starting point.”

Raymond nodded. “And it’s not just the watch.”

He pulled out another document.

“This is Colleen’s access log history,” he said. “Not yesterday—last month. She accessed your personnel file.”

Barbara’s eyebrows lifted. “Why would she access your file?”

Raymond’s mouth tightened. “No legitimate reason. Unless she was gathering information.”

My throat tightened. “My schedule.”

“Yes,” Raymond said.

Barbara sat back slowly, mind racing. “If she accessed Lydia’s schedule, she could identify a day she’d be away.”

Rachel’s voice came through my memory again: The personal day you scheduled weeks in advance.

Raymond nodded. “And if she has admin access—or knows someone who does—she could clone credentials.”

Barbara’s face went hard. “We need to see who in IT has a relationship with Colleen.”

Raymond tapped the whiteboard where he’d written one name already under “Possible Access Allies.”

Troy Ramirez.

I frowned. “Who is that?”

Raymond’s eyes narrowed. “IT administrator. Privileged access. Not flashy. Not famous. The kind of person who can make systems lie.”

Barbara’s jaw clenched. “And is there a link between him and Colleen?”

Raymond flipped a page. “There are rumors. Workplace gossip. But I don’t build cases on rumors. I build cases on patterns. And the pattern is: Colleen accessed the logs after your suspension.”

I felt cold spread down my spine. “She was checking what the system recorded.”

“Or changing it,” Raymond said.

Barbara stood. “We need to move fast. If she’s editing logs, evidence is being destroyed.”

Rachel’s voice cut in. “Then why isn’t she arrested already?”

Barbara’s eyes flashed. “Because law enforcement needs enough to justify warrants and charges. Suspicion isn’t enough. Proof matters.”

Proof.

I stared at that word like it was both salvation and a curse.

Because proof could save me.

But proof also meant someone had to admit two people had been murdered as collateral damage in a vendetta against a nurse who reported a mistake.

That afternoon, Barbara requested another meeting with the detectives and prosecutor.

This time, we came armed.

Not just with an alibi.

With a theory.

In a conference room at the district attorney’s office, Detective Cordova stared at the watch photo and then at Colleen’s selfie.

Detective Thornnehill’s mouth tightened. “That’s… significant.”

Ellen Shapiro leaned forward, eyes sharp. “You’re alleging Colleen Vance impersonated Miss Mercer, dispensed lethal medication, and fabricated records?”

Barbara didn’t blink. “I’m alleging the evidence points to her having access and motive. And that hospital systems show signs of manipulation that require administrative involvement.”

Detective Cordova looked tired, like the world had become heavier overnight. “We already requested the hospital preserve logs.”

Barbara’s voice was cold. “Preservation doesn’t prevent alteration unless the system is secured. And if an insider is doing this, they know exactly how to skirt preservation.”

Ellen Shapiro’s gaze sharpened. “Do you have evidence she accessed the logs after the incident?”

Raymond slid papers across the table. “Yes. Here are her access timestamps. Out of pattern for her role. She accessed audit log modules multiple times.”

Detective Thornnehill’s eyes flicked over it. “We can use this for probable cause.”

Ellen Shapiro nodded slowly. “Possibly.”

Barbara leaned forward. “You’re sitting on a murder case and an ongoing threat to my client. If Colleen did this and she’s still at large, she’s a danger.”

Ellen held Barbara’s gaze. “We are not sitting. We are building.”

Barbara didn’t back down. “Build faster.”

The room went still.

Ellen Shapiro exhaled through her nose, then turned to the detectives. “Get me a warrant package.”

Detective Cordova nodded. Detective Thornnehill’s gaze didn’t leave the documents.

I sat there, heart pounding.

This was the moment—the pivot point where the story could become the truth.

Or become an even bigger nightmare.

Because if they went after Colleen and she hadn’t done it, the case could swing back to me with doubled suspicion.

And if they went after Colleen and she had done it, then she’d know her time was up.

Which meant she’d get desperate.

And desperate people did ugly things.

When I left the DA’s office, a reporter followed me down the sidewalk.

I kept my head down. Barbara’s hand stayed firm on my elbow.

“Miss Mercer!” the reporter called. “Are you the Thornhill Angel of Death?”

My stomach clenched.

Barbara turned just enough to stare the reporter down. “No comment.”

The reporter persisted. “Is it true you were in Pittsburgh? Is it true you’re blaming a coworker?”

Barbara’s smile was thin and sharp. “Is it true you’ve never met my client but you’re comfortable calling her a murderer? That’s a question for your conscience.”

The reporter blinked, startled, then kept filming anyway.

Because conscience didn’t pay rent.

Headlines did.

Back in Rachel’s car, I stared out the window at the city.

Pittsburgh was gray and gritty and honest. Not like the polished fantasy of hospital brochures. It was bridges and steel and real people.

And somewhere in Thornhill, someone was still trying to hold my life in their hands like a toy.

Rachel glanced at me. “We should get you a new phone number.”

My mouth went dry. “You think they’ll keep texting?”

Rachel’s eyes narrowed. “I think they’ll escalate.”

As if summoned by her words, my phone buzzed again.

Unknown number.

DON’T MAKE THIS WORSE.

My throat tightened. “Rachel…”

She reached over, snatched my phone, and stared at the message like she wanted to crawl through the screen and drag someone out by the hair.

“This is evidence,” she said, voice low. “This is fear.”

I swallowed. “Or confidence.”

Rachel looked at me. “If they were confident, they wouldn’t warn you. They’d just destroy you quietly.”

She handed the phone back. “They’re scared.”

I stared at the message.

Scared people were dangerous.

But scared people also made mistakes.

That night, I returned to my apartment for the first time since the accusation.

Barbara didn’t want me to. Rachel didn’t want me to. Mark offered to come with me like a bodyguard.

But I needed clothes. My mail. My cat.

Yes, I had a cat. Her name was Juniper. She hated everyone except me and treated affection like a limited resource.

Walking up the stairs to my apartment, my skin prickled.

The hallway smelled like someone’s curry and laundry detergent. Normal things. Things that belonged to a world where nurses weren’t accused of killing five patients.

My key shook in my hand.

I unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Juniper didn’t greet me.

That alone spiked my adrenaline.

“Junie?” I called softly.

Silence.

I stepped inside.

The living room looked… wrong.

Not messy. Not obviously ransacked.

Just… disturbed.

My throw pillow was slightly off. My coffee table book was opened to a different page.

A subtle wrongness, like someone had touched my life with careful hands.

I walked slowly toward the bedroom.

My closet door was ajar.

It was always closed.

My heartbeat hammered in my ears.

I reached for the closet door and pulled it open fully.

Nothing jumped out.

Just clothes.

Then I saw it.

A sticky note—bright yellow—stuck to the inside wall of the closet at eye level.

Three words, written in block letters:

WE SEE YOU.

My legs went weak.

Juniper hissed from under the bed.

Someone had been in my apartment.

They hadn’t stolen anything.

They’d left a message.

A warning.

A claim of ownership.

My throat tightened so hard I could barely breathe.

I backed out of the bedroom and grabbed my phone with shaking hands.

Barbara answered on the second ring. “Lydia?”

“Someone was in my apartment,” I whispered.

“What?” Her voice snapped sharp.

“There’s a note,” I said, voice trembling. “They left a note.”

“Get out,” Barbara said instantly. “Now. Don’t touch anything else. Call the police. I’m calling Detective Cordova.”

I stumbled backward out the door, keys slipping in my hand.

In the hallway, my neighbor Mrs. Aldridge opened her door a crack, eyes wide. “Honey? Are you okay?”

My mouth opened, but all that came out was a broken sound.

Mrs. Aldridge stepped closer, then saw my face and stiffened. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “It’s you.”

That hurt more than I expected.

Not because she recognized me.

Because she said it like she recognized a disease.

I didn’t answer.

I fled down the stairs, out into the parking lot, breathing in cold air like it could scrub my lungs clean.

Ten minutes later, two officers arrived.

They entered my apartment with gloves and flashlights and the kind of caution reserved for places where violence might linger.

I stood outside with my arms wrapped around myself, shaking.

One officer emerged later holding the sticky note in an evidence bag.

“Ma’am,” he said carefully, “did you tell anyone you were coming here today?”

My stomach dropped. “No.”

The officer nodded slowly. “Then someone may be watching your movements.”