But later, those two—those monsters—had been together. They were the ones who killed my child and pushed me into the abyss!
My fingertips went cold as I tightened my fist.
I unfolded the scrap of paper hidden against my chest. My heart lurched when I read the shaky handwriting.
[If you plan to overturn the case, I’m willing to be a witness. The silence of five years has tormented me. I’m sorry.]
Tears pricked at my eyes at the sight of the crooked, slanted characters. After being shrouded in darkness for so long, in that moment, I finally saw a sliver of hope.
With a witness, in five days, our chances of winning would be a little better.
Suddenly, all the humiliation I had endured that night in the party hall—the forced kneeling, the degradation made into a spectacle—seemed trivial.
Soon, the operating-room lights went out.
The doctors emerged with solemn faces. One of them told Mariam, “The gastric lavage went smoothly. The child’s life is saved. However, during the procedure, we found abnormalities in his brain. We suspect a glioblastoma. We’ve sent samples for further testing. Even with surgery, the success rate for this kind of lesion is very low—less than thirty percent.”
As soon as the words fell, the air suddenly chilled.
Mariam’s face was drained of color. She shook her head and muttered, “No… No… Luca is so young. How could this be…”
Her body went weak, and she nearly collapsed. Charlton immediately held her up.
While no one was paying attention to me, I crushed the scrap of paper into a ball and, with deliberate calm, I swallowed it.
‘There are only a handful of surgeons in the country qualified to perform this operation. And I… am one of them.’
5
Arizona’s POV
Of course, Charlton would think of me first.
He seized my hand so hard it hurt, desperation burning in his gaze. “Arizona! You have to do it! You can save Luca, can’t you?”
Mariam’s soft, sympathetic mask shattered completely. She lunged forward, yanking at my collar, her eyes bloodshot and feral. “Arizona! You must save my son—or I’ll kill you!”
A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my throat. Slowly, I took off the glove I’d been wearing.
Under the harsh white light, my right hand was a map of winding scars. The fingers were stiff and twisted, long since robbed of the fine dexterity needed for surgery.
I smiled, and the smile cracked as tears spilled down my face. “My hand’s been damaged for a long time.”