The name on the screen didn't provide any clear answers. It was a complete mystery.
St. Jude's Hospice for Long-Term Care.
I looked at Dante. His face was pale and showed his confusion. A hospice? The calls weren't going to a burner phone or a criminal, but to a quiet place meant for final peace. It made no sense. This wasn't the proof of a traitor we had expected.
"St. Jude's…" Dante whispered, the name echoing strangely in the quiet security hub. He pushed back from the console and walked to the large window, staring out at the city lights as if he was seeing them for the first time.
"What is it?" I asked as I joined him. "Do you know it?"
He didn't look at me. His eyes were focused on something far away, deep in his memory.
"It was my mother's favorite charity," he said, his voice hollow. "After she died, my father continued to support it. He set up a private wing there, a place for people who needed discreet, long-term care."
The irony was suffocating. The calls led to a place created by the very family whose trust was now in doubt. The suspicion changed. This wasn't a simple betrayal for money. It was something much deeper, more personal, and tragic.
"The note on Valerius's drive," Dante said, the pieces falling into place in a horrifying way. "'Payment E. Honorarium.' An honorarium isn't payment for a service. It's a gift. A donation. It wasn't a payment to Elara. It was a payment for someone."
My heart dropped. The 'E' didn't stand for Elara. It stood for an expense. For nineteen years, Marco Valerius had been paying for a patient's care in a Moretti-funded hospice, and Elara was the secret link.
"We have to go there," I said firmly. "Right now."
He didn't argue. The need to find out and see the source of this nineteen-year-old secret was overwhelming.
The drive across the quiet city felt like venturing into the unknown. We didn't talk, each of us lost in our own thoughts and fears. St. Jude's was an old, beautiful building made of stone and covered in ivy. It seemed peaceful, but I sensed the secrets hidden within its walls.
At the front desk, Dante's name opened the door. The Moretti family was well-known here. An elderly night nurse gave him a sympathetic look.
"We're here about the endowment my father set up," Dante said smoothly. "We're reviewing all the family's charitable accounts. We need to see the file for the longest-term patient in the private wing."
"Of course, Mr. Moretti," the nurse replied, typing on her computer. "That would be Mr. Vargas. He has been here a long time. Such a tragedy."
Vargas. The name didn't ring a bell for me.
"His benefactor, a Mr. Valerius, has handled the expenses for years," she continued, unaware of the weight of her words. "But it's his mother who is the true saint. She comes every other day without fail. Poor woman. Her name is Elara."
The world shifted. I gasped for air. I braced myself against the cool wall for support. Dante stood frozen, a look of shock on his face. Elara's maiden name was Vargas.
"Take us to his room," Dante commanded softly.
The nurse led us down a quiet, sterile corridor. She stopped at the last door on the left. "He's not responsive, I'm afraid. Hasn't been for years. But his mother sits with him. She talks to him and never loses hope."
She opened the door, and we stepped inside.
The room was dim, filled with the soft sounds of medical equipment. A man lay in the bed, kept alive by tubes and wires. He looked to be in his late forties, his face gaunt and body still. It was life in a state of suspension, a soul buried alive.
This was Elara's son.
The cruel nature of Valerius's plan hit me hard. He hadn't bought Elara's silence with money. He had used her child's life to keep her quiet. He had turned a mother's love into a means of control, holding her captive for nineteen years with the threat of pulling the plug. Elara hadn't just seen the murder of her employers; her own son had been one of the victims, his life taken and his living body used as the key to a terrible secret.