At 3:06 a.m., Mara found the second discrepancy.

The IV bag hanging beside Vincent's bed was labeled correctly.

The seal wasn't.

She held it beneath the reading lamp, careful not to disturb him.

Hospital pharmacy bags had tamper-resistant ports. This one had a faint puncture in the rubber seal, nearly invisible unless someone knew what to look for.

Mara knew.

She clamped the line.

Vincent's eyes opened immediately.

"What are you doing?"

"Changing your fluids."

"Why?"

"Because I don't like this bag."

His gaze sharpened.

"What does that mean?"

"It means I don't like this bag."

"Mara."

She paused.

It was the first time he'd used her name.

"Who gave you your medications tonight?"

"You're asking questions."

"Medical questions."

"Tony brought in a doctor."

"When?"

"Before you got here."

"Name?"

Vincent watched her for a long moment.

"Hayes."

Mara took the bag down.

"I'm keeping this."

"Why?"

"Because somebody punctured the seal."

Silence.

The room seemed colder.

Vincent's voice changed.

"Come here."

"No."

"Come. Here."

Mara folded her arms.

"I respond badly to commands."

"And I respond badly when strangers tell me someone's tampering with my medication."

"Then tonight has been difficult for both of us."

He pushed himself higher against the pillows and immediately winced.

"Give me the bag."

"No."

His eyes hardened.

"Are you stupid?"

"Frequently. Not about medication."

"Mara—"

"You have a fresh injection site that isn't documented. Your wound is infected despite appropriate postoperative antibiotics. And this bag has been punctured."

She held it up.

"Maybe all three are innocent explanations."

"You don't believe that."

"No."

Vincent reached toward the bedside phone.

Mara stopped him.

"Don't."

His hand froze.

"You have exactly three seconds to explain why you just told me what to do in my own house."

"If someone inside this house is altering your medication, announcing that we noticed would be incredibly stupid."

"We?"

"Unfortunately."

For several seconds, Vincent simply stared.

Then he laughed once.

There was no humor in it.

"Seven hours."

"What?"

"You've been in my house seven hours, and you've decided someone's trying to kill me."

"Technically, I've been here about six."

His mouth twitched.

"You're insane."

"Could be."

Mara replaced the compromised bag with a sealed one from the locked medical cabinet.

"But until Dr. Hayes gets here, nothing enters your IV unless I open it myself."

Vincent's expression became unreadable.

"You think I should trust you?"

"No."

She connected the new line.

"You shouldn't trust anybody."

That answer silenced him.

Dr. Rebecca Hayes arrived before dawn.

She was tall, composed, and visibly irritated at being dragged from bed. Her expression became much less irritated when Mara showed her the punctured seal.

"You didn't administer anything through this?" Rebecca asked.

"No."

"Good."

She inspected Vincent's arm.

Then his chart.

"Who had access?"

Tony stood near the door.

"Household medical staff. Me. Vincent."

"And six nurses who quit," Vincent added.

Mara glanced at him.

"Those women left."

"Maybe one wanted a farewell gift."

Rebecca ignored them.

"I'll have the contents tested."

"No outside lab," Vincent said.

"Vincent—"

"No."

Rebecca exhaled.

"I know a private toxicology lab."

"Use it."

Tony took the bag.

Vincent's eyes followed him out.

Mara saw something she hadn't seen the previous night.

Fear.

It vanished almost immediately.

By afternoon, Vincent was unbearable.

He refused lunch.

Refused physical therapy.

Refused pain medication.

When Mara asked his pain level, he stared at the ceiling.

"One to ten."

Nothing.

"Fine. Blink once for 'I'm being childish.'"

His gaze snapped toward her.

"Get out."

"Eight, then."

She prepared the prescribed dose.

"I don't want morphine."

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

"That's not a clinical reason."

"It's the only reason you need."

Mara put the syringe down.

"Fine."

That surprised him.

She reached for acetaminophen instead.

"What are you doing?"

"Respecting your refusal while still treating your fever."

"You enjoy this."

"What?"

"Arguing."

"No. I enjoy competent patients. I've just never met one."

His mouth almost moved.

Almost.

By evening, the toxicology report came back.

Rebecca read it twice.

Tony stood behind her.

Vincent watched from the bed.

Mara knew the answer before anyone spoke.

"Tell me," Vincent said.

Rebecca looked at him.

"The bag contained midazolam."

Mara's stomach tightened.

Vincent went still.

"How much?"

"Enough that with your current pain medication and respiratory status, repeated exposure could suppress your breathing."

Tony swore quietly.

Vincent didn't.

That was worse.

Mara looked at Rebecca.

"Could it explain why he's been so sedated?"

"Possibly."

"And the poor mobility?"

"Partially."

Vincent's head turned.

"What?"

Rebecca hesitated.

"Your chart from the previous nurses repeatedly describes extreme lethargy during physical therapy."

Mara understood.

Someone hadn't necessarily been trying to kill him quickly.

They had been keeping him weak.

Keeping him in bed.

Keeping him dependent.

Vincent's voice became almost unnaturally calm.

"Everyone out."

Tony didn't move.

"Vincent."

"Out."

Rebecca collected her bag.

Mara stayed.

Vincent noticed.

"That includes you."

"No."

His eyes flashed.

"I am not in the mood."

"Neither am I."

"Mara."

"You have a fever."

"Get out!"

His fist struck the bedside table.

Mara didn't move.

"You want to know what's making you angry?"

He stared at her.

"It's not that somebody drugged you."

She stepped closer.

"It's that somebody made you helpless without you knowing."

His face changed.

She had hit something.

Deep.

Dangerous.

"You don't know anything about me."

"You're right."

"Then stop pretending."

"I'm not pretending."

Mara lowered her voice.

"But I know patients. And I know fear."

His eyes went cold.

"I am not afraid."

"Sure."

"Get out."

This time Mara did.

She needed air.

She needed five minutes without Vincent DeLuca trying to turn every medical interaction into a territorial war.

She reached the small bedroom assigned to her and shut the door.

Her bag was on the dresser.

Her clothes had been neatly unpacked.

Mara opened the bottom drawer.

Ethan's photograph was still there.

So was the hospital paperwork she'd hidden beneath it.

She took out the latest statement.

$186,437.

Mara sat on the bed.

For a moment, she let herself feel it.

The terror.

The exhaustion.

The horrible arithmetic of loving someone whose survival had a price tag.

Then someone knocked.

Mara quickly folded the paper.

Tony stood outside.

"Vincent wants you."

"That's unfortunate."

"He specifically asked."

"Did he say please?"

Tony stared.

"I'll assume no."

She returned to Vincent's room.

He was sitting against the headboard.

The bedside lamp was on.

In his hand was a folded piece of paper.

Mara stopped.

Her blood went cold.

Vincent unfolded it.

$186,437.

He looked at her.

"Who's Ethan?"