The phone rang just as I was unpacking the last of my books. I glanced at the screen, surprised to see Curtis Henderson's name flashing across it. My finger hovered over the answer button for a moment before I took a deep breath and accepted the call.
"Freya." His voice was formal but carried an unfamiliar note of hesitation. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
"Not at all, Mr. Henderson." I placed a book on the shelf and straightened my spine, preparing myself for whatever might come next.
"Curtis, please." A pause. "I wanted to call personally about what happened at the funeral. It was... inexcusable."
I ran my thumb along the spine of another book, feeling the ridges of the title. "Thank you for saying that."
"I've reviewed the situation thoroughly," he continued, his tone shifting to something more businesslike. "And I want to make things right. I'd like to write you a personal check for the full amount you spent on Eleanor's care."
The offer hung in the air between us. Three hundred and forty-seven thousand dollars. The sum that had once seemed so important now felt strangely hollow.
"That's very generous," I said carefully.
"It's not generosity, Freya. It's justice." His voice carried a weight I hadn't heard before. "You were wronged. By all of us."
I closed my eyes, remembering Eleanor's face during those final days. How she'd gripped my hand and whispered that she loved me like a daughter. How she'd promised those pearls would be mine someday.
"I appreciate the gesture," I said finally, "but I can't accept."
"Freya—"
"This isn't about money anymore, Curtis." I interrupted gently but firmly. "It's about justice, yes. But not the kind you're offering."
Silence stretched between us. In the background, I could hear the faint sounds of his office—the ticking of a clock, the distant murmur of voices.
"What kind of justice are you looking for?" he asked finally.
"The truth." I moved to the window of my new apartment, looking out at the city below. "I want people to know who really sacrificed for Eleanor. Who really loved her."
Curtis sighed heavily. "I see."
"I'm not trying to hurt anyone," I continued. "But I won't let Halo erase what I did for your family."
"No," he agreed quietly. "You shouldn't have to."
We ended the call shortly after, leaving me with a strange sense of validation. Curtis Henderson had acknowledged my worth—something his son never could.
---
Three days later, a frantic knocking at my door jolted me from sleep. I checked the time—6:17 AM—before wrapping myself in a robe and peering through the peephole.
Walker stood in the hallway, his usually perfect appearance in disarray. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and his eyes looked sunken, desperate.
"Freya!" he called when I opened the door. "Thank God you're here."
"What do you want, Walker?" I kept the security chain on the door, creating a barrier between us.
"Can I come in? Please?" His voice cracked with urgency. "We need to talk."
Against my better judgment, I closed the door and removed the chain. When I reopened it, Walker pushed past me into the apartment, his movements jerky and agitated.
"What's this about?" I asked, crossing my arms.
"Halo's in trouble." He paced the small space, running his hands through his hair. "St. Mary's Medical Center is threatening to make public some... misunderstandings about documentation from Mother's treatment."
My stomach tightened. "What kind of misunderstandings?"
"Signature issues. Authorization forms." He stopped pacing and fixed his desperate gaze on me. "They're saying some of the paperwork wasn't handled properly."
"And?"
"And they're threatening to go public with it." His voice rose. "They say it could damage the hospital's reputation."
I leaned against the wall, watching him carefully. "And you think I can fix this?"
"Only you can fix this." He stepped closer, his eyes pleading. "You handled all the paperwork. You know how everything works there."
A cold realization washed over me. "This is about Halo, isn't it?"
Walker's silence was confirmation enough.
"She used my name on those documents," I said quietly.
"Freya, please." His voice cracked. "Help us fix this. The hospital is threatening to make everything public if we don't sort it out."
I studied his face—the face I'd once loved beyond reason. Now I saw only desperation and manipulation.
"What exactly do you want me to do?" I asked.
Before he could answer, my phone buzzed with a text message. I glanced down to see a notification from St. Mary's Medical Center's patient portal.
*Important notice regarding documentation discrepancies in your account...*
I looked back at Walker, a new understanding dawning. This wasn't just about saving face anymore.
This was about something far more serious.
