Dr. Feldman walked down the corridor, his white coat flapping. He ignored Dalton and the lawyers, walking straight to Johana.
"Are you the roommate?" he asked gently.
"Yes," Johana said, her voice trembling.
"I'm Dr. Feldman. I've just examined Miss Olson." He glanced at the group of men hovering nearby. "Let's step into the family room. We can speak privately."
He guided Johana and Chloe into a small room with a couch and a box of tissues on the table. He closed the door, shutting out the suits.
"Sit down," he said.
Johana stayed standing. "Just tell me."
"Miss Olson has suffered a severe acute psychological trauma," Dr. Feldman said, his voice calm but serious. "She is exhibiting signs of severe stress and dissociation."
"What caused it?" Chloe asked, her hand over her mouth.
"Toxicology came back positive for a high level of alcohol, and a significant amount of a benzodiazepine. A party drug. It was likely slipped into her drink without her knowledge."
Johana felt the floor tilt. Hazelle didn't do drugs. She barely drank.
"Was she... did someone hurt her?" Johana forced the words out.
"There is no evidence of physical assault," Dr. Feldman said. "But her mental state is extremely fragile. She was repeating phrases. 'It's too late.' 'It's all my fault.' 'They won't let me go.'"
The words hit Johana like a physical blow. They won't let me go. She was trapped.
"She needs immediate, long-term inpatient care," the doctor continued. "A facility that specializes in trauma. I recommend Sheppard Pratt."
"Sheppard Pratt?" Chloe whispered. "That's thousands of dollars a day."
Johana's heart sank. She had no money. Hazelle's family had no money. It was impossible.
A soft knock interrupted them. The door opened, and Dalton's assistant, Taylor, stepped in. He looked perfectly composed, holding a tablet.
"Excuse me, Miss Neal," Taylor said. "I couldn't help but overhear. Mr. Black has authorized full payment for Miss Olson's care. She will be transferred to Sheppard Pratt immediately. A private ambulance is already en route."
Johana stared at him. The kindness of the gesture was completely swallowed by the coldness of the execution. It wasn't kindness. It was a transaction. It was hush money.
She pushed past him and walked out of the room. Dalton was standing in the hallway, leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone. He looked up when she approached.
"So that's it?" she asked, her voice shaking with rage. "You just write a check and the problem goes away?"
Dalton straightened up, pocketing his phone. "It gets her the help she needs."
"Gets her the help she needs, or gets you off the hook?" Johana stepped closer, getting in his space. She had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye, but she didn't back down. "I know what you're doing. I know why you're paying. You're buying her silence."
Dalton didn't flinch. "You're upset. You're not thinking clearly."
"I'm thinking clearly enough to know that you're all guilty," Johana said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "And I'm not going to let this go. I don't care how much money you have. I will find out what happened in that house."
Dalton looked down at her. His gaze was intense, searching. He didn't look angry. He looked... intrigued.
"Is that a promise?" he asked softly.
"It's a fact," Johana said.
They stared at each other, the air crackling between them. Kamren and Zane stood a few feet away, watching in stunned silence. No one talked to Dalton like that. No one challenged him.
Johana broke the stare first. She turned her back on him and walked toward the nurse's station to see Hazelle.
Dalton watched her go. He didn't move until she was out of sight.
"Taylor," he said, not turning around.
"Yes, sir?"
"Find out everything about Johana Neal. I want to know what she had for breakfast."
