Her first stop wasn't the sanatorium. It was a sterile, brightly-lit electronics store. Using the Black Card for the first and perhaps last time on a large, public purchase, she bought a new, untraceable burner phone and the cheapest laptop on display. While the new device charged on the bus, she accessed her cloud backup, a ghost of her old life materializing on the new screen.
Araminta didn't dare use the Black Card for a private car. She took a Greyhound bus to the outskirts of the city, clutching her coat tight around her.
The State Sanatorium smelled of industrial bleach and boiled cabbage. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like trapped flies.
She found Griffin in the common room. He was sitting in the corner, rocking slightly. He was too thin. His collarbones poked against his skin.
Three other patients-rough-looking men-were surrounding him. One of them snatched the apple from Griffin's tray.
"Hey!" Araminta shouted. She dropped her bag and shoved the man. "Back off!"
The man looked at her, then at her clean, expensive coat. He grunted and walked away.
Griffin didn't look up. He was staring at the TV mounted on the wall. It was tuned to a financial news channel.
"Griffin?" She knelt beside him. "It's me."
"I'm a burden," Griffin whispered. He was still staring at the screen. "Javen said I'm a burden."
"No," Araminta said fiercely. She cupped his face. "You are my brother. You are everything."
Griffin pointed a bony finger at the TV. The ticker tape was scrolling red numbers. "They're falling. The red blocks. They have a rhythm."
"You understand that?" Araminta asked.
"The numbers sing," Griffin said, his voice flat but intense. "That shape... the Doyle shape... it's going to break. The line is wrong."
Araminta froze. Griffin had savant syndrome. She knew he was good with math, but this... he was seeing patterns in the chaos of the market.
She stood up and marched to the reception desk. "I need to make a payment for Griffin Donaldson's account," she said, sliding a piece of paper across the counter. On it was an account number and a transfer authorization code Elena had sent to her new phone. A silent, untraceable payment from a ghost account within Wolfe's empire. "I also want to upgrade him to a private room. Immediately."
The receptionist looked bored until she processed the transfer. Her eyes widened at the amount. "Yes, ma'am. Right away."
An hour later, Griffin was in a quiet, clean room with a view of a garden.
"I broke up with Javen," Araminta told him. "It's just us now."
Griffin grabbed her wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong. "Javen is a bad man. He steals numbers."
"What do you mean?"
"I saw his papers once. Before I came here," Griffin said, squeezing his eyes shut as if in pain. "Lots of zeros. Moving to 'Cayman'. He hides the zeros."
Araminta's heart raced. Griffin had seen the actual evidence of embezzlement. That was why Javen kept him medicated and locked away.
Her new phone buzzed. A text from the bank. Daily limit set on card ending in 4490.
She let out a bitter laugh. Alfonse. He was keeping her on a leash. He gave her the card, but he controlled the flow.
She looked out the window. A bright red convertible pulled up to the front entrance.
Araminta ducked behind the curtain.
Blossom Vega stepped out of the car. She was wearing sunglasses and a scarf, trying to be incognito. She carried a thick manila envelope.
Araminta watched as the Sanatorium Director came out to meet her. Blossom handed him the envelope. They shook hands.
A cold chill went down Araminta's spine.
They weren't just going to cut off funding. They were paying the Director to do something else. To make Griffin disappear? To drug him into silence?
"We have to go," Araminta whispered.
"No," Griffin said. "I want to help. I can watch the numbers."
"We can't stay here," she said. "But I can't take you yet. I don't have a safe house."
She needed documents. Passports. Birth certificates. If they needed to run, they needed their identities.
And those were still in the safe at Doyle Manor.
