Page 1 of Crystal Veil

1

ELENA

The antiseptic bite of hospital air hits my nose before my eyes open. Fluorescent light pulses beneath my lids, too bright, too harsh. Everything aches. My ribs, my shoulder, my head like it's been split open and stitched back together with fire. I shift, but even that small movement sends pain ricocheting through my body like shards of glass digging deeper into my flesh.

My mouth tastes like copper and chemicals, and there's something bitter underneath that makes my stomach churn. The beeping of machines creates a steady rhythm around me, punctuated by distant voices in the hallway. Nurses discuss medication schedules, and doctors review charts. It’s the mundane sounds of a hospital operating in the early morning hours.

“Elena.”

Amelia's voice wavers, thick with emotion. She leans in, her hand wrapping around mine like a lifeline. Her fingers are cold, trembling slightly as they intertwine with mine. “Hey... hey, you're okay. You're safe. I've been sitting here for hours.”

I blink slowly, my vision swimming as shapes gradually come into focus. Her face appears first. I note her red-rimmed eyes, blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail that tells me she's been running her hands through it, and worry pressed into every delicate line of her face. Dark circles shadow her usually bright blue eyes, and her normally perfect makeup is smudged, mascara streaking down her cheeks in dried tracks.

“What... happened?” My voice is nothing more than a breath, dry and hoarse. The words scrape against my throat like sandpaper, and I wince at the effort it takes to speak.

She opens her mouth to respond, but her expression shifts, eyes darting toward the door. There's something she's not telling me that makes her shoulders tense and her grip on my hand tighten protectively. Before she can answer, the door swings open with enough force to rattle the frame.

A man steps inside, his presence filling the entire room with disdain. He is in his late forties, maybe early fifties, with thinning hair slicked back in a way that doesn’t quite hide the bald spot forming at his crown. His jaw sits crooked, probably broken at some point, and never set properly from an injury that earns you street cred in another life. The badge clipped to his belt reads “Detective Mercer,” but nothing about him feels merciful. His shirt is wrinkled and coffee-stained, and his tie hangs loosely around his neck like he's been working all night.

“Elena Martinez,” he announces, pulling out a worn notebook with pages that curl at the edges. His pen clicks repeatedly as he flips through previous entries, already annoyed with me before I've even spoken. “You want to tell me what the hell happened here?”

Amelia stands instantly, her chair scraping against the floor. Her posture shifts from that of a concerned friend to a protective shield in seconds. “She just woke up. She's in pain. Maybe you can come back when the doctor clears her for visitors.”

“I don't care if she's in a coma,” Mercer snaps, his eyes never leaving mine. “We've got a woman impersonating hospital staff, and now that woman is in the morgue. I need answers, and I need them now.”

My chest tightens, and suddenly breathing becomes difficult. The heart monitor beside my bed picks up pace, beeping faster as panic creeps in. “I... I don't know who she was. I asked her for water, then everything went blurry. Next thing I remember is waking up here.”

The memory comes back in fragments. A woman in navy blue scrubs instead of the pale green worn by most of the other hospital staff. Her brown hair was tucked into a neat bun. Her name tag flipped backward against her chest, and her dark eyes appeared almost black in the lighting.

Mercer narrows his eyes like I've just insulted his intelligence. He steps closer to the bed, his shoes heavy against the linoleum floor. “Funny. Because that mystery woman had a syringe in her pocket and a fake ID badge. Security footage shows her entering the building through a maintenance entrance that should've been locked. You sure you don't recognize her? Friend? Co-worker? Maybe someone trying to finish what you started?”

“What are you talking about?” I manage the words scraping against my throat like broken glass.

He leans in slightly, not threatening exactly, but close enough that I can smell stale coffee and irritation radiating from hispores. His breath carries hints of cigarettes poorly masked by mint gum. “You've been nosing around where you don't belong. Real estate corruption, offshore accounts, the names that get people disappeared. Now you've got a body on your hands and zero answers. Doesn't exactly scream ‘innocent journalist.’”

The accusation hits me like a punch to the gut. I’ve spent months chasing the waterfront development story, tracing money trails and connection webs that point to dangerous men. But I never thought it would follow me here, to Jackson Memorial, where I came to check on Nick after he was shot by Bennato’s people.

Amelia bristles beside me, her protective instincts flaring. “Hey! Back off. She's the victim here, not the suspect.”

“I've got a dead woman and a mess of questions,” Mercer continues, ignoring her completely. His pen taps against his notebook in an irritating rhythm. “You're at the center of it. So, unless you want to go from victim to suspect real quick, I suggest you start remembering details you conveniently forgot.”

“I didn't do anything,” I whisper, but it feels feeble in the face of his obvious disbelief. The words drift in the space between us, inadequate against the intensity of his suspicion.

He smirks like he's heard a thousand versions of the same excuse from criminals far more creative than me. “Sure. You just happened to be the target of a fake nurse with a gun in a city hospital crawling with security cameras and armed guards. Pure coincidence, right?”

The sarcasm drips from his voice like acid. He flips through his notebook again, making notes I can't see from this angle. Whatever he's writing, it doesn't seem to be in my favor.

“The woman who tried to kill you,” he continues, “bypassed three security checkpoints and disabled two cameras on her way to you. This wasn't some random psycho with a grudge. This was planned, funded, and executed by people with resources.”

The memories come rushing back now. The nurse guided me down a quiet hallway. The cold press of a gun. The struggle. My head hit the floor. The deafening crack of a gunshot.

Mercer finally straightens, flipping his notebook closed like he's done pretending to care about my well-being. “I'd start figuring out why someone would want you dead, Martinez. And fast. Because whoever sent that woman isn't going to stop at one failed attempt.”

He pauses at the door, turning back with one final observation. “Oh, and Martinez? Next time you decide to investigate stories that get people killed, maybe warn the hospital staff first. They don't like cleaning up journalist blood from their floors.”

He leaves without another word, the door slamming behind him, rattling the small window set into the frame.

Amelia exhales sharply, rubbing her temple with both hands. “Asshole.”