I leaned toward it.
"What is that?"
Marcus glanced over his shoulder. "Don't touch it."
"I wasn't going to."
The green light blinked again.
It was not a notification. It came from a tiny pinhole near the charging port, pulsing at regular intervals.
A recording indicator.
The realization made my skin prickle.
"His phone is recording us."
Marcus pulled the car to the curb.
The sudden stop sent my shoulder against the door.
He turned around and looked at the device. For the first time, his controlled expression cracked.
"Put it on the floor," he said.
"Why?"
"Now."
I picked it up with the edge of my takeout bag and dropped it onto the carpeted floor between my feet. The green light continued to blink through the dark.
"Who is listening?" I asked.
Marcus reached for the interior microphone near the ceiling and pulled the wire free. The light did not stop.
"It isn't connected to the car."
"Then it was turned on before I got in."
"Yes."
"By Adrian?"
"I don't know."
The phone vibrated against the floor.
A video began playing by itself.
The image was dark and shaky, filmed from somewhere inside the Blue Lantern. I could hear the hiss of the grill and the low murmur of customers. The angle pointed toward the counter, where I stood with the coffee pot in my hand.
My face was turned toward booth seven.
The video timestamp read 7:18 p.m.
I watched myself move behind the counter, bend down, and open the lower cabinet beneath the register.
I had no memory of doing it.
The recording continued.
A hand entered the frame. A man's hand, wearing a silver ring shaped like a narrow rectangle. It placed a white envelope on the shelf inside the cabinet.
Then the camera shifted.
The person holding it stepped into the reflection of the pie case.
The face was hidden by the angle, but the uniform was clear.
A light blue shirt.
A black apron.
The same uniform I wore.
My mouth went dry.
"I never opened that cabinet," I said.
Marcus stared at the screen.
The video showed the person walking away from the register, carrying the envelope. A few seconds later, the kitchen door opened, and Mrs. Dalton's voice called for someone to bring out more clean cups.
The recording ended.
The phone displayed a single line of text.
FILE 7B — ORIGINAL WITNESS.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
Marcus did not answer.
I picked up the phone again, this time using the corner of the paper bag. The screen changed before I could unlock it.
A second video loaded.
This one showed a printed employee file spread across a desk. The top page carried the Blue Lantern logo and the words STAFF EMERGENCY CONTACTS.
My name was visible.
So was Ethan's.
Beside his name, someone had written a new phone number in dark ink.
The number was not Ethan's.
I knew it because the last four digits matched the number that had been sending the messages.
I felt the car tilt beneath me, though we were sitting still.
"Someone changed my brother's emergency contact."
Marcus took the phone from my hand.
"Who has access to the diner records?"
"Mrs. Dalton. The owner. The payroll company."
"And whoever filmed this."
He swiped through the files. There were photographs of the diner, the register, the kitchen, and booth seven. Some had been taken during business hours. Others showed the empty restaurant after closing.
Then he found an image that made him stop.
It was a photograph of me asleep on my couch.
The picture had been taken through the window of my apartment.
My apartment was on the third floor.
I could see the old radiator beneath the window, the blanket around my shoulders, and the stack of community college textbooks beside my bed. The timestamp was from three nights earlier.
I had been alone.
"How did they get that?" I whispered.
Marcus's hand tightened around the phone.
"Your apartment building has cameras."
"Not inside my apartment."
"No."
"Then someone was inside."
He looked at me.
"Maybe."
The word was too small for what the photograph meant.
I reached for the door handle again.
Marcus caught my wrist—not hard, but quickly.
"Don't."
I yanked away from him. "You don't get to tell me what to do."
"You're right."
"Open the door."
"We're two blocks from the hospital."
"Open it."
"If you leave now, whoever has been watching you will know you found the files."
"Maybe they already know."
The green light on Adrian's phone blinked faster.
A new audio file appeared.
Marcus pressed play.
For several seconds, there was only static. Then a man's voice came through the speaker.
"She saw the switch."
My own voice followed, faint and frightened.
"That coffee was poisoned."
The man spoke again.
"Not the waitress. The other one."
The recording ended.
I looked at Marcus.
"Who is the other one?"
He had gone pale.
"You know."
"I don't."
"You do."
"I swear I don't."
He stared at the phone as if it had become dangerous to look away from.
"At the diner, Cole wasn't the only person who switched something."
The words barely reached me over the rain.
"What else was switched?"
Marcus did not answer.
I remembered the coffee pot. The cups. The white envelope in the cabinet. The dark reflection in the pie case.
Then another memory surfaced.
At 7:18, when the person in the blue shirt opened the cabinet, I had been standing behind the counter.
But I had also been carrying the coffee pot toward booth seven.
I could not have been in both places.
"Who was wearing my uniform?" I asked.
Marcus started the car again.
"The person who planted the envelope."
"Who?"
He drove the last two blocks without speaking. St. Matthew's emergency entrance came into view, bright beneath the storm. A security officer stood under the canopy, and two police cruisers were parked near the ambulance bay.
I expected to feel safer.
I didn't.
Marcus pulled into a restricted lane. Before he could open his door, a nurse hurried toward us and waved both arms.
"Mr. Hill!" she shouted. "You need to leave the vehicle!"
Marcus lowered the window.
"What happened?"
"The police officer who brought in the sample is missing."
My breath caught.
"What officer?" Marcus asked.
"The one assigned to the evidence."
The nurse looked past him and saw me in the back seat.
Her face changed.
"Is that Hannah Reed?"
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
Marcus reached for the door lock.
The nurse stepped back from the car.
"Don't let her out," she said.
A figure appeared behind her in the hospital entrance.
Adrian Vale.
He was wearing a clean white shirt, but his face was gray and one hand was pressed against his side. He looked as if he had just come from an examination room, yet his eyes were fixed on the phone in Marcus's hand.
Then he looked at me.
"Where did you get that recording?" he asked.
"Your phone was recording the car."
His expression changed.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
"Give it to me."
I held the device against my chest.
"Who is the other one, Adrian?"
He stopped beneath the hospital lights.
The nurse looked from him to Marcus. "You know her?"
Adrian ignored the question.
"Hannah, listen to me carefully. The person who wore your uniform was not trying to make me look guilty."
"Then what were they trying to do?"
"Make you look like the witness who helped them."
The emergency entrance doors opened behind him, and a police officer stumbled into the lobby. His uniform was soaked, and one sleeve was dark with blood.
He pointed toward the parking lot.
"Vale," he gasped. "The evidence bag was empty."
Adrian's gaze stayed on me.
The phone in my hand began to ring.
The caller ID showed my own number.
Neither Marcus nor Adrian moved.
I answered.
For three seconds, there was only the sound of rain.
Then a woman whispered, "Hannah, if Adrian tells you he was the target, don't believe him."
The voice was familiar.
It was Mrs. Dalton's.
Before I could speak, she added, "He was the one who brought the poison into the diner."
The voice on the phone was unmistakable.
Mrs. Dalton had spoken those words in the same tired, raspy tone she used every night at the Blue Lantern. I could picture her behind the counter, gray hair pinned above her neck, dish towel over one shoulder, counting receipts while pretending not to listen to everyone else's conversations.
"He was the one who brought the poison into the diner."
My fingers tightened around the phone.
"Mrs. Dalton? Where are you?"
Static crackled in my ear.
Then her breathing changed. It became shallow and uneven, as if she were trying not to cry.
"Hannah, don't let him—"
A sharp sound cut her off.
The call ended.
I stared at my own number on the screen.
Adrian stood beneath the hospital lights, one hand pressed against his side. His face had gone still in a way that made the nurse step farther away from him.
"What did she say?" Marcus asked.
I looked at Adrian.
"She said you brought the poison into the diner."
The police officer who had stumbled into the lobby tried to stand straighter. Blood darkened the sleeve of his uniform, and one hand gripped the doorframe.
Adrian did not deny it.
That frightened me more than any denial could have.
"Where is Mrs. Dalton?" I demanded.
"I don't know," Adrian said.
"She called from my number."
"Then someone has access to your phone records, your brother's phone, and my phone."
"You said she was involved."
"I said nothing about her."
"You knew she was in danger."
"I knew everyone connected to the diner might be."
"That isn't what I asked."
The nurse glanced toward the security officer. "Should I call the police?"
"They're already here," Marcus said.
"Not enough of them," the injured officer muttered.
A loud crash came from somewhere behind the emergency entrance. The nurse flinched and turned toward the corridor.
Adrian's eyes moved to the dark parking lot.
"Get her inside," he said.
The security officer took one step toward the sedan.
I pulled the door closed before he could reach it.
"Don't touch me."
"Hannah," Marcus said, "open the door."
"Why? So you can take the phone?"
His gaze dropped to the device in my hand.
I had not noticed until then that the green recording light had stopped blinking.
The screen went black.
The files were gone.
I tapped the display once. Nothing happened. I pressed the power button. Still nothing. The phone had been fully charged when I saw the videos. Now it felt as dead as a stone.
My only evidence had vanished.
I held it up toward the window.
"Your phone just erased everything."
Adrian looked at Marcus. "What did you do?"
"Nothing."
"You were holding it."
"I played the recording. I didn't delete it."
Adrian stepped toward the car, and pain crossed his face. His hand tightened against his side.
The nurse noticed. "You need to sit down."
"I'm fine."
"You were exposed to an unknown neurotoxin less than an hour ago. You are not fine."
"I touched a contaminated cup. I didn't drink it."
"Your blood pressure is unstable."
The statement hung between us.
I watched Adrian's hand press harder against his ribs. Suddenly, the clean white shirt did not look clean anymore. A faint gray stain spread beneath his fingers.
"You're bleeding," I said.
His eyes dropped to his side.
For the first time since I had met him, he looked genuinely surprised.
The injured officer pushed away from the doorframe. "He was bleeding when we found him."
"Where did you find him?" Marcus asked.
"Treatment room three. Alone."
Adrian's head turned sharply. "You said the hallway was secure."
"It was," the officer replied. "Until the lights went out."
The emergency entrance flickered above us.
Once.