Two weeks had passed since that night—a fortnight of quiet, grueling recovery. Mailah had learned to navigate the room with a set of crutches, her movements slow, deliberate, and painful. The sharp, agonizing stabs of the initial injury had dulled into a constant, heavy ache, but the bone was knitting. She was no longer a prisoner of the bed, but she remained a prisoner of the estate.
The mystery of the photograph remained unsolved. No other notes had appeared, and Morrison's demeanor had returned to its usual, cool, clinical mask. He treated her not with cruelty, but with an exhausting, detached efficiency that made her feel like a specimen under glass.
