"Mrs. Caldwell, who do you believe did this?"
Monica's red lips curved into a smile as she turned toward the paid reporter. But then her eyes drifted to the back of the gathered crowd—and the words died in her throat.
She couldn't believe what she was seeing. Who she was seeing.
Her eyes widened. The color drained from her face.
There—standing calmly at the back of the crowd—was a woman who was supposed to be dead.
Delores Sanchez.
She leaned against a wall, a scarf wrapped around her hair, but her face was exposed. And she was smiling—right at Monica Caldwell.
Monica stood frozen, shaking.
Delores looked amused, watching as the smile slid off Monica's face and her skin turned four shades paler.
Jimmy and Mark turned to look at their mother, suddenly quiet. Her horrified expression didn't go unnoticed. Jimmy stepped a little closer.
"Mom," he said softly.
But Monica didn't move. Didn't blink. Her entire body trembled like a leaf in the wind.
The crowd started to murmur, reporters glancing at one another. The shift in her demeanor was too sudden to ignore.
Mark stepped forward, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Mom?" he asked, trying to pull her out of it.
She finally flinched, startled, her gaze snapping to him.
"What's going on?" he asked, his brow furrowed.
She didn't answer—still shaking, still pale—but her eyes darted back to the crowd.
Delores was gone.
"No… no. It can't be," she muttered, rubbing her eyes. "It just can't be..."
Jimmy leaned toward Mark and whispered, "Get her out of here. People are watching."
Mark nodded and stepped forward, but Monica jerked away and stumbled to the edge of the podium, muttering to herself, "It can't be her… it can't…"
Mark lunged just in time, catching her arm before she could step too far.
Jimmy moved quickly to the mic. "That's a wrap for today," he said firmly, as Mark helped steady their mother and began leading her off the stage.
Camilla, always quick, raised her voice over the buzz of the crowd. "Mr. Caldwell, what just happened? Is your mother alright?"
Jimmy stepped back to the mic, his expression calm but cold. "She's not feeling well," he replied smoothly. "That's all for tonight."
Camilla tried again, but security was already stepping in, blocking access to the podium. The velvet ropes closed in. Reporters were forced back as Jimmy turned and followed his family off stage.
Mark kept a firm grip on Monica, who clutched his arm with trembling fingers, her breath short and shaky, like she'd seen a ghost.
"Mom," he said low, trying to keep her upright. "What did you see?"
No answer. Her head whipped back, scanning the crowd behind them like she still expected to see someone.
"I saw her," she finally whispered. "I saw her. How is she alive?"
Mark stiffened. "Who?"
She didn't answer.
Jimmy appeared beside them. His voice was tense but hushed. "What's going on?"
Monica's knees buckled, and Mark caught her before she fell, wrapping an arm around her waist.
"Mom," Mark tried again, firmer this time. "Tell us. Who did you see?"
Her lips parted, but she couldn't speak. Her throat bobbed like she was choking on the words. She kept shaking her head, over and over.
"No… no, it's not possible. It can't be her. It can't."
Jimmy scanned the press still hovering nearby and signaled to the guards. "We need to move. Now."
They hurried through a side exit into a quieter hallway. The air was cooler. The lights dimmer. Monica leaned against the wall, eyes wide, chest heaving.
Mark stood in front of her, tense and alert. "Talk to us. Please."
Still nothing. Just her shaking hand pressed to her mouth.
Jimmy stepped in closer, lowering his voice. "Was it a threat? Did someone send a message?"
Monica didn't look at him. Her eyes stayed fixed on some faraway point in her mind.
"I watched her die," she whispered.
Both sons froze.
"Who?" Mark asked.
No reply.
Jimmy stepped forward. "Mom. Look at me. Who did you see?"
She finally met his eyes. And what they saw there shook them to their core.
Fear. Real, raw, bone-deep fear.
She didn't answer.
Just another whisper, softer this time.
"How is she alive?"
****
Mark ran a hand through his hair as he and Jimmy stepped out of their mother's bedroom. The door shut behind them with a soft thud.
Jimmy leaned against the wall for a moment, silent, processing.
Mark was already walking off, phone in hand, checking it for what felt like the fiftieth time.
Jimmy noticed. He reached out and grabbed Mark's forearm.
Mark glanced down at the hand, then up at his brother.
He pulled away.
"Where are you going?" Jimmy asked, straightening to his full height.
Mark arched a brow, annoyed—and silently reminded that his brother had two inches on him.
"None of your business," Mark snapped, turning to walk away—but Jimmy stepped forward, blocking his path.
"What's your problem with me?" Jimmy asked, his voice low but tense. "Ever since I woke up from the coma, you've been acting like a complete ass."
Mark let out a laugh—cold, sharp.
Jimmy frowned. "What's so funny?"
Mark tilted his head. "It's just… funny how you keep calling it a 'coma,' like it wasn't the result of you getting your face pounded in." His smirk deepened. "You weren't asleep, Jimmy. You were beaten into silence."
Jimmy's fists clenched at his sides. Every nerve in his body screamed to wipe that smug look off Mark's face—but he forced himself to stay still.
"I'm not here to fight you," he ground out. "I want us to talk about Mom. She saw something. She was shaking, whispering stuff that didn't make any sense. We need to figure out what's going on."
Just then, Mark's phone chimed.
He didn't look down at it right away. Instead, he gave Jimmy a long, dismissive stare. "Mom's just getting old, Jimmy. Losing it. You're the only one refusing to accept that."
He shrugged. "Anyway, I've got better things to do. You go play detective."
He stepped around his brother and then glanced at the message on his phone.
His entire expression shifted.
It was a text:
Zarina: Hi, thanks for yesterday. Can we meet today for coffee?
Mark's lips curled into a soft smile, almost boyish, like he'd just won a prize.
He didn't realize Jimmy was still watching him from behind—frowning, wary.
He didn't realize the silence behind him had changed.
And he didn't realize what waited for him beyond that coffee.
If only he knew..