“I Can Heal Your Eyes!” the Girl Revealed – The Blind Millionaire Uncovered His Fiancée’s Dark Plot
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“I can heal your eyes!” The girl’s voice echoed through the quiet space like a stone dropped into deep water, gentle but impossible to ignore.
Thomas Grant, a blind millionaire, turned his head toward the sound, although his eyes were covered by darkness and could no longer see anything. Central Heights Park, where he often went with his wife, was bustling with the sounds of a normal Houston afternoon: the rustling of leaves, children’s laughter, and the distant sound of traffic.
Thomas gripped the iron chair’s arms, taking in every familiar detail. This was the place his wife Judith took him to every day, saying it helped him relax. But lately, she seemed increasingly distant, often leaving to talk on the phone without explanation. Thomas didn’t ask; he was tired of the doubts and the silence.
The young girl’s voice rang out again, closer, as if she had been waiting for this moment. “I can fix your eyes,” she repeated, this time without hesitation or teasing, only certainty. Thomas felt a bitter smile on his lips. “You can’t imagine what I’ve been through. The surgeries, the technology, it all failed.”
“And now, you think you can fix it?” he asked, his voice doubtful. “I don’t think so,” the girl replied, “I know.” Thomas turned his head, trying to sense her presence. She sat beside him, small but steady. “Why did you say that?” he asked. She was silent for a moment, then whispered, “Because I heard her say it. She said you were blind and she was going to have everything.”
The girl’s words were like a knife stabbing into Thomas’s heart. “What did she do?” he asked, his voice trembling.
“I don’t know how she did it, but I think she wanted you gone or helpless,” the girl said, her voice trembling not from fear, but from a knowing that seemed too heavy for her young age. Thomas felt something ancient and fragile inside him crack.
“I didn’t want to say anything in front of her,” the girl added, “she scares me, but I had to wait until she was gone. I had to make sure it was safe.” Thomas leaned back slowly, the breeze carrying Judith’s voice faintly through the trees. “Thomas, time to go, darling,” she called.
The girl stood, and he could hear the soft rustle of her worn shoes on the concrete. “I’ll be here tomorrow, same time,” she said before disappearing. Thomas didn’t move when Judith’s familiar perfume drifted closer, nor when her hand reached for his. His mind stayed behind with the little voice that saw through more than his blindness and the promise she carried like a flicker of light inside the dark.
For the first time in a long time, Thomas wondered, “What if I hadn’t lost everything? What if someone still saw me?” That night, Thomas sat in his leather armchair, surrounded by shadows that did not end when he closed his eyes. He relived every word the girl had spoken, every soft note in her voice, every pause that felt intentional and full of truth.
The stillness of the room was too complete; there was not a sound from Judith. She hadn’t returned to their shared suite after he had said he was tired, just a note: “Had to take a late call. Sleep well, Jay.” He didn’t reply. Instead, Thomas sat in darkness, fingers pressed together, palms sweating.
A strange sensation for a man who had once controlled billions in assets, made decisions that changed lives with a word. He hadn’t felt powerless then, but now he was left to wonder whether the greatest betrayal of his life had happened right under his nose—or rather, right in front of his blind eyes.
The next morning, Judith’s routine was unchanged. She helped him dress, her touch efficient but devoid of warmth. She mentioned a lunch meeting she would have to step away for, apologized in a rehearsed tone, and let him out like always, her heels clicking rhythmically against the marble hallway. He said nothing in the car; silence again.
When they reached the park, she guided him to the bench with practiced ease and said, “I’ll be back in a bit, darling,” before walking off toward her usual spot near the stone hedges. He listened carefully. “No girl, not yet,” he thought. He waited, heart pulsing, palms still damp.
He counted the seconds, then the minutes. Birds chirped, people passed, a child screamed joyfully in the distance. Then faint footsteps approached—barefoot or close to it. “Sir?” Her voice was different this time, quieter, as if worried someone else might hear.
“You came back,” he said, trying to mask the relief in his tone. “I told you I would,” she said simply. He turned toward her. “What’s your name?” “Jada.” Jada. The name felt warm on his tongue, human, solid. “How long have you been watching us?”
“A while.” There was no guilt in her voice, no embarrassment, just truth. “I thought she cared for me,” he muttered. “Maybe she did,” Jada offered, “once. But now she’s planning something. I heard her say she has a lawyer ready. She said once your board thinks you’re no longer capable, she’ll take over everything.”
Thomas let out a breath through his nose, slow and controlled. “I knew something was wrong. I felt it, but you telling me changes everything.” She shifted on the bench beside him. “I don’t want anything from you. I just wanted to warn you.”
“I appreciate that,” he said genuinely. There was a pause, then she added, “And I meant what I said yesterday. I can help you.”
“You’re ten years old, maybe eleven. What makes you think you can help a blind man?” He meant it kindly, but it came out sharper than he intended. “I don’t mean it like doctors do,” she said. “I don’t have machines or medicines, but sometimes I feel things. I know things about people. Sometimes I touch someone and I can feel something shift.”
Thomas was silent. She continued, “I think it’s why I knew she was lying. I didn’t hear just her words; I felt it like poison in the air.” He didn’t laugh. He wanted to, but something in her voice made him hesitate. Something raw and oddly grounded. She wasn’t performing; she was telling the truth as she knew it.
“I felt people change before,” she said, “but never someone like you.” “Like me?” “Sad,” she whispered, “but still waiting.” He swallowed hard. “You could run,” she said. “You could leave her. You’re rich, right? Go somewhere else.”
“I can’t just vanish, Jada. There are contracts, there’s a board, there’s reputation, and I can’t see. That makes people nervous.” “You’re scared,” she said, with no malice. He didn’t reply. After a moment, she stood. “I don’t know if I’ll come back tomorrow. She’s starting to look around more.”
“Wait,” he said. He reached out, missed, then adjusted until his hand lightly touched hers. Her skin was warm, dry, real. “If you don’t come back, I won’t know what to do.”
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She said nothing, then whispered, “Then I’ll come, but be ready—not just to see, but to believe.” And like yesterday, she was gone.
That night, Thomas didn’t return to the penthouse right away. He had the driver take a longer route home, asking to be left in the car alone, engine off, parked near the old Bayou Bridge. He needed silence, not the hollow silence of wealth, but the silence of choices made too long ago.
He thought of Jada, of her calm, her strange wisdom, her refusal to be afraid. He remembered how Judith once held his hand the same way—before the money, before the boardrooms, before ambition wore down love into habit. He touched his useless eyes and wondered for the first time in months if perhaps blindness hadn’t just taken his sight; maybe it had revealed something far worse that he hadn’t been seeing for years. Long before the accident, he had been walking blind into his own undoing, and now a little girl with nothing had given him the one thing he hadn’t even known he’d lost: perspective.
Thomas Grant woke up with a tremor in his chest—not from fear, at least not the kind he recognized, but from something deeper, like a memory just beneath the surface that refused to be forgotten. He lay in bed for several minutes before even considering getting up, the voice of the little girl Jada in his mind: “Be ready, not just to see but to believe.”
The morning moved forward as if nothing had changed. Judith served him black coffee, two eggs, toast slightly burned the way he used to like. She spoke with pleasant efficiency, discussing a brunch with the executive team and then a quick stop at the law firm. Her tone was breezy; her heels clicked perfectly in sync with her words. He wondered how long she had practiced this calm, this care, this control.
“Would you like me to bring you to the park again today?” she asked with a bright tone, lifting the toast to his lips. Thomas paused. “Yes,” he said, voice smooth. “It’s good for me.”
“Um.” Her chair shifted slightly, as if she wasn’t expecting him to say yes so easily. The ride to Central Heights Park was silent as usual. Judith fiddled with her phone; he could hear the soft taps of her screen, the buzz of incoming messages. Her perfume, once intoxicating, felt too sweet now, artificial.
When they arrived, she led him again gently but firmly to their usual bench. As she placed his cane by his side, she leaned in close and kissed his cheek. “Back soon,” she said sweetly. He waited until the sound of her heels faded past the fountain before speaking. “Are you there, Jada?”
He didn’t expect a response right away, but after a few moments, a quiet voice said, “Yes.” She had been watching again, waiting for her moment. “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said. “I wasn’t sure either,” she admitted, “but I saw her checking her watch. She doesn’t stay long—just long enough to make a few calls and be seen.”
Thomas shifted slightly, his fingers tightening around the bench’s edge. “You said something yesterday about feeling when someone changes. How does that work?” Jada sat down beside him. He could hear the rustle of her coat, too thin for the season, maybe worn through at the elbows.
“I don’t know. I just sense things. It’s like there’s a part of people that glows inside, and sometimes that glow gets dark or cold. Some people flicker; some people burn bright and then go out.” Thomas was silent. “You,” she said slowly, “your glow is quiet but steady, like it’s been buried under a lot of dust.”
He laughed softly, a sound that surprised even him. “Dust is about right.” She shifted closer. “Do you remember what it was like before? Before the accident, before everything, when you were happy?”
He wasn’t ready for the question; it hit him like a forgotten song on an old radio—familiar, intimate, painful. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I remember moments—laughter with my son when he was little, Judith back when we were real. My work used to mean something. We built things, created. It was simpler then.”
“You miss that?” she asked. There was silence. Then she asked, “What would you do if you could see again?”
Thomas tilted his head, considering. “I used to think I’d want to read the news, watch the market, get back to work. But now I think I’d want to see people’s faces, just to know if they match their words.”
Jada didn’t speak for a while. Then she said, “Sometimes people’s faces lie too.” He turned toward her voice. “But yours doesn’t, does it?”
She didn’t answer that. Instead, she asked, “Can I show you something?” He hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“Not something you look at, something you feel.” She gently took his hand, turned it palm up, and placed something into it. It was small, round, cold at first, then warming in his grasp. He ran his fingers over a rough texture, a thin string attached. “It’s a stone,” he said. “Sort of. It’s from the creek under the Bayou Bridge. I wrapped them in cord. I give them to people who need something to hold when they feel lost.”
He squeezed it gently. “It’s beautiful.” “You can’t see it,” she said. “I don’t need to,” he replied. She smiled; he could hear it in her breath.
Just then, Judith’s voice rang out, cheerful but firm. “Thomas, ready to go, love?” Thomas froze. Jada whispered, “Don’t tell her about me—not yet. She’s not ready to know what you know.” He nodded slightly; she slipped away again, like the breeze through the trees, gone before Judith reached the bench.
“Have a nice time?” Judith asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. He turned to her, smiled faintly. “Yes, very.” She seemed pleased. “Good. I’ll make us dinner tonight—something simple, steak, sure.”
But all he could feel was the small stone in his pocket and the warmth of a child’s voice that knew more about him than the woman who had shared his life for thirty years.
That night, Thomas stood at his window, facing the blur of city lights he could no longer see. He whispered to no one, “I think I’m starting to believe.” It rained the next morning—not the kind of thunderous downpour that drowns the city in chaos, but a slow, steady drizzle that blurred the skyline and made everything feel quieter.
Judith complained softly as she pulled the umbrella from the coat closet, muttering something about her suede shoes and the inconvenience of wet weather. Thomas said nothing; he merely listened to the rain, to the tension in her voice, to the sound of the world shifting around him in ways he couldn’t see but had learned to read.
As usual, she led him down to the car, buckled his seatbelt with polite detachment, and barely spoke on the way to the park. When they arrived, she hesitated. “It’s wet,” she said. “Do you want to skip it today?”
“No,” Thomas said too quickly. “I’d rather go.” A pause, then, “All right, just don’t catch cold.” She brought him to the bench, brushed off the rain with a cloth from her bag, and placed the cane beside him. “Fifteen minutes,” she said, then walked off toward the far hedge, umbrella tapping against her shoulder like a metronome.
Thomas sat in the drizzle, feeling the chill bite into his skin. He didn’t care. He reached into his coat pocket and ran his fingers over the wrapped stone Jada had given him. The cold texture had a grounding effect; it reminded him that yesterday hadn’t been a dream.
Footsteps approached, light and careful—the unmistakable sound of small feet avoiding puddles. “You came,” he said without turning. “I promised,” Jada replied. “Besides, I don’t mind the rain; it makes people move slower. They don’t notice me as much.”
He smiled. “Clever.” She sat beside him, and for a while, they said nothing. The sound of rain on leaves filled the silence. Then Jada spoke. “Can I ask you something strange?”
“Stranger than a little girl offering to heal a blind man?” he teased. She giggled. “Fair point.” He waited.
“Have you ever felt light?” Thomas turned slightly toward her. “Felt it, not seen it?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Like not with your eyes, but with your skin or your chest, like something warm moving through you.” He considered. “Maybe once, years ago, when my son was born. I was holding him, and I remember feeling something inside me crack open like sunlight through a window I didn’t know was there.”
Jada nodded slowly. “That’s it.” He didn’t ask how she understood something so abstract; he just accepted that she did. “I think people carry light,” she continued. “Some carry more than others; some lose it; some never find it.”
“And you?” he asked. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “I think I see it in others more than I feel it in me.” There was a sadness in that, a loneliness too mature for her age.
“You’re wrong,” he said. “You carry a lot more light than you realize.” She didn’t respond, but he felt the bench shift slightly as she leaned closer. “Your wife,” she said carefully, “she’s not just taking your company. I think she’s scared of you getting better.”
“Why?” he asked. “Because if you do, you might leave her.” Thomas said nothing. The thought had crossed his mind—uninvited, unwanted—but it was there, not out of spite or revenge, but from clarity, from waking up.
“Jada,” he said, “what do you want from all this?” She was quiet for a long time. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “Maybe I just want to matter to someone, even for a little while.”
“You do,” he said firmly. She nodded, though he couldn’t see it. Then she reached for his hand again. “I want to try something. Just trust me.” He offered his hand without hesitation. She placed both of hers around it, gently, firmly. “Close your eyes,” she said.
He almost laughed but obeyed. “Now breathe,” she instructed. He inhaled slowly and deeply. “Think of that moment you told me about your son, that light. And then something shifted.”
It wasn’t magic; it wasn’t a miracle, but something inside him softened. The rain faded, the sounds dulled, and he felt something—not quite warmth, but presence, an awareness he hadn’t felt in years, as if his body remembered being whole.
When he opened his eyes—useless though they were—he was crying. “I didn’t see anything,” he whispered. “But I felt… I don’t know… peace.”
“That’s a start,” Jada said. He squeezed her hand. “Thank you.” She stood. “I have to go; your wife is watching today.”
Thomas turned his head instinctively. “How do you know?”
“I can feel her,” Jada said. “Her light flickers when I’m near. It gets cold.” Then she slipped away. Thomas sat in silence, the rain tapping softly on his shoulders, the stone in his pocket growing warm in his hand.
Judith returned moments later, voice tight. “You’re soaked! Why didn’t you call me?” He didn’t answer. She sighed, wrapping a blanket around him. “You’ll catch pneumonia out here.”
He leaned into her arms with practiced stillness but said gently, “Judith, why don’t you ever sit with me anymore?” She paused just long enough for him to notice. “I want you to have your quiet,” she said quickly. “You need space to think.”
He nodded slowly, but the thought had already planted itself—not just a seed of doubt, but of knowing. The girl who had placed it there carried more light than anyone he’d ever known.
Thomas Grant had never thought much about how he walked for most of his life. It had been automatic—one foot, then the other, propelled by certainty and purpose. But since losing his sight, each step was deliberate, cautious, measured, like a man counting the edge of his own fading dignity.
That morning, however, he felt different. There was something in his chest—a thrum, a quiet sense of forwardness he couldn’t explain. Maybe it was the conversation with Jada the day before or the moment when he felt something move within him like dust shaken loose from a forgotten light bulb. Whatever it was, he woke up determined not to sit on that bench all morning. He wanted to walk, to feel the world again.
Judith was uncharacteristically quiet on the drive to the park. He could tell she was watching him in the rearview mirror, but she didn’t say much—no talk of meetings, no affectionate banter, only silence measured and thin, like a thread about to snap.
At the park, she helped him from the car, adjusted his coat collar, and placed his cane in his hand. “Same bench?” she asked. “No,” he said. “I’d like to walk a little today.”
She hesitated. “It’s still damp. You sure?” “I am.” He felt her fingers press briefly against his shoulder, then slip away. “Don’t go far. I’ll be over by the hedge.” He nodded and took his first step.
The walkway was slightly uneven; stones shifted from years of root growth beneath. Thomas moved slowly, feeling out each patch of ground with the tip of his cane. His ears tracked every noise: the soft flutter of pigeons, the wind brushing through tree branches, and somewhere faint and far, the voice of a young girl singing under her breath.
He turned slightly in that direction, just enough to listen, but the sudden cry of a toddler nearby startled him. He lost his footing. One wrong step—his cane hit a shallow dip between the stones, and his balance shifted violently. His foot slid out, his body tilted sideways, and then impact pain exploded in his wrist as he hit the ground hard. His hip slammed into the edge of a concrete step, breath knocked from his lungs; he tasted blood. A sharp gasp escaped him, and he lay there frozen by the sting, by the shame, by the brutal reminder that no matter what light he might be discovering within, his body was still fragile, still blind, still breakable.
“Mr. Grant?” The voice rang clear, high and urgent. Small hands touched his back gently, then his arm. “Don’t move yet,” Jada said, her breath close to his ear. “I saw you fall. I was coming to find you.”
“I’m fine,” he muttered. “No, you’re not,” she said with calm insistence. “Your hands are bleeding; your wrist looks swollen. Just help me sit up.” She did, carefully, slowly, as if she’d done it before—for others, maybe for herself. He leaned back against the cold base of the park’s old war monument, breath shallow, pain burning up his side.
“I didn’t see the drop,” he said bitterly. “Stupid mistake.” “You didn’t see anything,” she said. “That’s not stupid; that’s just real.” He gave a dry chuckle. “You’re too honest for your age.”
“And you’re too proud for yours,” she shot back. The words hit him harder than the fall. She pressed a folded cloth against his bleeding palm. “We need to get this cleaned. You might need stitches. I can call someone.”
“No time,” she said quickly. “She’s coming.” He turned his head. “Judith?” he heard her voice. “She’s looking for you.” Sure enough, within seconds, Judith’s heels clacked fast and sharp across the stone path.
“Thomas!” “Oh my god, what happened?” Jada vanished swift as shadow behind a bench. Thomas sat up straighter, pain flaring. “I tripped,” he said. “Misjudged the edge.”
Judith was instantly at his side. “You shouldn’t have walked alone! I told you this path isn’t safe!” “I needed to move,” he said calmly. “We’re going home,” she said. “Now this is too much. I should have hired someone.”
He bit back a reply as she helped him to his feet. He gritted his teeth, bracing against the sharp pain in his hip. He leaned heavily on the cane. “I’ll call Dr. Sandler. We’ll stop by his clinic.” “No,” Thomas said. “Take me to the house.”
She hesitated. “But you—” “I said house.” Her silence said more than words. She led him back to the car, this time with firmer hands, her tone clipped. In the back seat, Thomas held the blood-streaked cloth in his palm and stared blindly ahead.
He knew Judith would use this moment as evidence, as proof—another step in her plan to portray him as incapable, frail, unfit to oversee anything—not his company, not his fortune, maybe not even himself. But something had shifted again—not broken, just bent like a bone realigning.
Back at home, while Judith busied herself on the phone, likely whispering to a lawyer or a doctor, Thomas sat alone in his study. He opened the drawer of his old oak desk and found what he hadn’t touched in over a year: a recorder. He pressed the button and spoke softly into the mic. “This is Thomas Grant. If anything happens to MAF, I am declared mentally or physically unfit. I want this on record. I have not lost my mind. I may have lost my sight, but I have not lost my will.”
He paused. “And I am not alone. There is a girl named Jada. She’s not a hallucination; she’s more real than anyone else in my life right now.” He clicked it off and placed it in the drawer. Then, reaching into his coat, he pulled out the stone she had given him. He held it tightly in his bruised hand, letting its shape anchor him.
The fall had hurt, but it had also taught him something vital: the only thing worse than falling was refusing to get up.
The rain had stopped by morning, leaving behind that peculiar scent of damp earth and moss that reminded Thomas Grant of his childhood—of early mornings on his grandfather’s farm in Kentucky, where the world felt wide and slow and trustworthy. That memory, distant and fragrant, was a strange comfort as he sat alone in his study, the bruises on his hip pulsing faintly and the cut on his palm now bandaged but still sore.
Judith had left early. She said there was an emergency board meeting. No mention of the fall, no gentle goodbye—just the sound of her heels and the front door closing with a soft click that felt colder than the rain.
He replayed her conversation on the phone last night, their voices low, clipped, speaking to someone named Carl. “Yes, the fall helped. No, he’s not resisting yet. Just give me two more weeks.” Two more weeks. It echoed in his skull like a countdown to a razor. She was preparing her move, and so was he.
He dressed himself carefully, a task he hadn’t done entirely alone since the accident. It took twice as long, and he winced at every tug near his ribs, but he did it. The shoes were mismatched; he could feel the subtle difference in the soles, but that didn’t matter. He needed only one thing this morning: to meet Jada again.
When the driver pulled up out front, Thomas used his cane to feel his way down the stairs. The driver, a young man named Miguel, jumped out to assist, but Thomas held up a hand. “I’ve got it,” he said. Miguel hesitated. “Sir, are you sure?” “Positive. Just take me to Central Heights Park, West Entrance.”
Thomas arrived twenty minutes early. It was quiet, the city still rubbing the sleep from its eyes. He settled onto the bench, carefully feeling the warmth of the morning sun on his face. No Judith, no Jada—just space to breathe. He waited, and then quiet footsteps on damp stone.
“You’re early,” she said. “So are you,” he replied. “I don’t sleep much,” Jada said. He smiled. “I didn’t sleep at all.”
She sat beside him, and he could feel her presence like a shift in the air. “I heard about the fall,” she said softly. “You saw it?” he turned his head toward her. “Why didn’t you stay?”
“She scares me,” Jada whispered. “Your wife—her light is angry, sharp.” He nodded. “She’s trying to take everything—the company, my name, maybe even what’s left of me.”
“Then we have to stop her,” Jada said. He smiled grimly. “You make that sound simple.” “It is,” she said, “but not easy.” She paused, then reached into her pocket. “I brought something.”
He heard the faint jingle of metal, then felt her place something into his hand: a necklace. The chain was thin and light, but the pendant at the end was heavy, with circular smooth edges. He ran his fingers over it; letters were carved deep. “What is it?”
“A St. Lucy’s medal,” she said. “She’s the patron saint of the blind. It used to belong to my grandmother. She said it helped her find her way.” Thomas held it tight.
“Jada, why are you helping me?” She was quiet for a long time. “Because people like her always win,” she said finally. “They lie, they smile, they take. And people like you, you stay quiet, you disappear. But not this time.”
Thomas blinked back the emotion threatening to rise. “You’re just a child.” “And you’re just a man,” she said. “We’re both more than they think we are.” He chuckled softly. “You ever think you’re too wise for your own good?”
“Every day.” She stood suddenly. “I need to go. There’s someone I want you to meet tomorrow.” He raised an eyebrow. “Who?”
“A friend. He knows things. People don’t believe him either, but he sees what others miss.” He hesitated. “Can I trust him?” “If you trust me,” she said, “you’ll trust him.”
“Then I will,” he said. She smiled, and even though he couldn’t see it, he could feel it like sunshine breaking through fog. “I’ll meet you here,” she said. “Same time.”
And just like that, she was gone. Thomas sat in silence, turning the metal over in his hand again and again. It felt solid, real, like something ancient and sacred—something to believe in.
That afternoon, Judith returned home, her tone saccharine and rehearsed. “How are you feeling?” she asked, setting down a tray. “Better,” he said. “The test helped.”
She moved to sit beside him, brushing his shoulder. “You know, if this is all too much, there are other options. You don’t have to keep pushing yourself.” “Other options?” he asked casually. “There’s a facility in Austin,” she said, “quiet, comfortable. They specialize in care for men like you.”
“Men like me?” he echoed. She smiled, though he couldn’t see it. “Men who’ve done enough, who deserve to rest.” “And what would happen to the company?”
“I’d oversee things, of course—temporarily, just until you’re settled.” He said nothing, letting the silence bloom.
Later that night, he sat in his study with the recorder again. “This is Thomas Grant,” he said softly. “She’s accelerating her plan, suggesting I step down permanently. I won’t—not yet—not while I still have my mind and my allies.”
He touched the metal. Not all light came from sight. Some light came from faith and some from a small girl with a big heart who refused to let him fade.
Thomas arrived at Central Heights Park early again—earlier than usual—feeling the chill of morning air through his coat. His cane tapped along the familiar cracks in the walkway, but his steps were more confident now, less out of necessity and more out of intent. The small St. Lucy’s medal hung beneath his collar, resting over his heart. He touched it every few steps like a rhythm, like a compass.
He settled on the bench, his body still sore from the fall days earlier, but the bruises were fading. What wasn’t fading was the quiet fire inside him—something Jada had stirred awake. Each day, her words carved through the fog Judith had wrapped around his world.
This morning would be different; Jada had promised someone would come—a friend, someone who sees what others miss. Thomas didn’t know what to expect—a doctor, a street preacher, a child like her.
The air shifted, and he heard footsteps—not the light, soft rhythm of a child, but firm, deliberate adult work boots. By the sound, the man sat down beside him without a word. The bench groaned under the weight; silence settled.
“You’re Thomas,” the man said after a moment, his voice deep, rough like gravel over stone. “I am.”
“She told me you might not believe me.” “Try me,” Thomas said. The man took a breath. “I’m not a doctor; I’m not a priest. I don’t fix people. I find things.”
Thomas turned his head slightly. “Things?” “Truth, motives, people’s weak spots.” “A detective?” Thomas asked.
“No,” the man replied. “Worse. I used to work for people like your wife.” Thomas straightened. “I was an enabler,” the man continued. “I helped people bury things—evidence, secrets. They paid me well until I saw one too many lives crushed for a payout. And now, now I try to stop it before it gets too far.”
Thomas was quiet for a moment. “What did she hire you for?” The man hesitated. “Two years ago, Judith approached my former firm. Wanted intel on the board, dirt on key shareholders. She called it contingency planning.”
Thomas tightened his grip on the bench. “I never knew you weren’t supposed to.”
“That’s how these people work. They move slow; they soften the ground before they strike. And you…”
“I left before I took the job, but I remembered the name. Then a few weeks ago, a little girl shows up at a food pantry where I volunteer—smart as hell, asked questions, said her friend was in trouble.”
Thomas smiled faintly. “Jada.” “Yeah, Jada. What now?”
“Can you help me stop her?” “I already started,” the man said. “You were right to be suspicious. I traced a few things. Judith’s been moving funds—small transfers, offshore accounts through shell names. Her lawyer, Carl Ramsay, is ex-corporate fraud. She’s planning a declaration of mental incompetence, says you’ve been confused, disoriented, even paranoid. She’s documenting it, building a case.”
Thomas took a deep breath. “How long do I have?”
“A week, maybe two, before she files.”
“And you?”
“Why help now?” The man didn’t speak for a while. “Because I ruined enough lives before. I owe the universe some balance. And because Jada believes in you. That kind of faith—it’s rare. I figured I’d better find out why.”
Thomas nodded slowly. “What’s your name?”
“Just call me Walker.”
“Alright, Walker. So what do we do?”
“I’ll send you files, hidden recordings, statements. You’ll need a lawyer that works for you, not her. I know someone good.”
“What else?”
“You need to act normal. Let her believe you’re still half-broken. Let her get confident. Meanwhile, we build our case.”
Thomas’s fingers traced the St. Lucy medal beneath his shirt. “I’m not a fool,” he said. “I know I’ve been quiet too long, passive. But that ends now.”
Walker stood. “That’s what I hope to hear.” He turned to leave but paused, and Thomas watched the nurse she hired last week, Jennifer. “She’s not who she says she is.” With that, he walked off, boots crunching softly over damp gravel.
A moment later, smaller, lighter steps approached. “You met him,” Jada said, sliding onto the bench beside him. “I did. He’s intense.”
“She grinned. “He’s kind, just doesn’t know how to show it. He told me about you.”
“How you found him?” Thomas asked.
“People trust kids with questions more than adults. They don’t see us coming.”
Thomas shook his head. “Odd. You shouldn’t have to do this.”
“Neither should you.” They sat in silence for a long moment. A dog barked in the distance; somewhere, a bike chain rattled.
“I’ve got a war coming,” Thomas said quietly. “I know,” Jada replied. “But you’ve got soldiers now.”
He turned toward her. “You’re more than that.”
She smiled. “Maybe
