A soft bell.
One notification.
I sat up too fast and nearly cried out from the pain.
On the bedside table, beside a plastic pitcher and folded gauze, lay a phone I did not recognize.
Black case.
No logo.
The screen glowed with a single message.
HELLO, CLARA.
My mouth went dry.
I did not touch it.
The officers were outside. Dr. Reed was somewhere nearby. Detective Voss was one call away.
But the phone was already inside the room.
That meant someone had placed it there.
Someone had passed the officers.
Someone had known my new name.
The screen dimmed.
Then lit again.
YOU HAVE BEEN VERY DIFFICULT TO KEEP ALIVE.
The words made no sense.
Not at first.
I stared at them until they rearranged themselves into something worse than threat.
Not difficult to kill.
Difficult to keep alive.
A third message appeared.
GRANT WAS NEVER THE ARCHITECT.
