His throat tightened as panic took hold. His gaze snapped to the center of the Persian rug.
Noah and Caleb lay there, motionless—but carefully placed. Between them sat Isabella, her back to him, dressed in dark clothes, shoulders trembling.
She was whispering. Not English. Not Spanish. Something old and guttural.
The boys’ faces were pale, their eyes locked on her raised hand.
Jonathan froze.
The object she held caught the light—a small, rusted piece of metal, jagged and ancient. It looked nothing like a medical tool.
She leaned toward Noah.
Just as the sharp tip hovered over his chest—
“ISABELLA! GET AWAY FROM MY CHILDREN!”
She spun around, eyes blazing with fury, not fear. Her hand froze midair.
Jonathan charged. She fought fiercely, trying to protect the object.
“No! It’s almost done!” she cried.
The metal slipped free, skidding beneath the coffee table. Jonathan shoved her away and shielded the boys.
“You’ve ruined everything!” Isabella sobbed. “You condemned them again!”
“You were about to stab my children!” Jonathan shouted, dialing 911 with shaking hands.
Police arrived within minutes. Sergeant Michael Torres, an old acquaintance, took control.
“She was performing some kind of ritual,” Jonathan said. “That thing looks like a weapon.”
“It’s a key,” Isabella said quietly. “And what I was doing was the only treatment for Reverse Lazarus Syndrome.”
Jonathan scoffed. “My sons have cerebral palsy. That’s confirmed.”
“No, they don’t,” she said firmly. “Their condition was induced—by fear, trauma, and medication. The diagnosis was falsified. Because of the will.”
Jonathan went still.
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