The walk back to Auntie Mae’s salon felt different. My fear was still present, a cold knot in my stomach, but it was now laced with a steely resolve. Malik’s brave act, his simple phone recording, had given me a concrete piece of the truth. It wasn’t just my word against Marcus’s. Now I had audio.
When I entered the salon this time, I didn’t hesitate. Auntie Mae was still at her station, finishing up with a client. She looked up, her eyes immediately finding mine, searching for answers.
I didn’t speak until her client had left. Then, I pulled out Malik’s phone and pressed play. Marcus’s angry voice, followed by D-Money’s mumbled replies, filled the small space.
“…I told you to make sure it was subtle, D-Money! Not a total failure. Just enough to… inconvenience. The point was to make her look irresponsible, not… dead, yet! We had to get those papers signed first.”
Auntie Mae’s face, usually so composed, tightened with grim recognition. Her hands, resting on the counter, clenched into fists.
“She’s a problem. A big problem. And if she doesn’t sign the rest, then maybe the next ‘accident’ won’t be so fixable. Just make sure there’s nothing traceable to us. It has to look like her own damn fault.”
The recording clicked off. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the distant city noise.
“He admitted it,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “He admitted to sabotaging my car. To planning my ‘accident’.”
Auntie Mae let out a slow, deep breath. “That boy, Malik, is a gift. This is powerful, Nia. Very powerful.”
“He attacked me in the hospital, Auntie Mae,” I continued, the words tumbling out. “He physically beat me to make me sign those papers. The doctors saw my internal injuries. Dr. Lena Washington.”
Auntie Mae nodded slowly. “Lena is my niece. She’s a good doctor. Sharp. She wouldn’t miss something like that.”
My head snapped up. “She’s your niece? I didn’t know.”
“She keeps her professional life separate,” Auntie Mae explained. “But she also cares deeply for her patients. Especially when she suspects foul play.” She looked at me intently. “Did you tell her what you suspected?”
“I couldn’t,” I admitted, shame coloring my cheeks. “Not when I was so drugged, so confused. And Marcus was right there, twisting everything. But she was concerned. I could see it.”
“Then she needs to hear this recording,” Auntie Mae stated, her voice firm. “Physical evidence from the hospital, combined with this admission… that’s undeniable. Even for Calvin Thorne, it makes a difference.”
A sliver of fear returned. “You think she’ll believe me?”
“Lena believes in facts, Nia. And this recording is a fact.” Auntie Mae paused, then picked up her own phone. “I’ll call her now. We’ll meet her at the hospital this afternoon.”
The hospital. The place where my nightmare had begun. The thought of returning there, reliving the trauma, made me feel weak. But I knew I had to. This was my chance to corroborate everything, to build an unshakeable case against Marcus.
Later that afternoon, Auntie Mae and I sat in a small, sterile consultation room at the hospital. Dr. Lena Washington, professional and poised, sat across from us, her expression serious. She remembered me, of course.
“Ms. Jenkins, it’s good to see you recovering,” Dr. Washington began, her voice calm. “Auntie Mae mentioned you had something urgent to discuss.”
I swallowed hard, then recounted the events, starting from the discovery of the burner phone, Marcus’s debts to Cal Thorne, and finally, Malik’s recording. I then played the audio for her.
Dr. Washington listened intently, her brow furrowed. When Marcus’s voice spoke of “not dead, yet” and “next accident,” her jaw tightened visibly.
After the recording ended, she leaned forward, her gaze piercing. “Ms. Jenkins, when you were admitted, you had significant internal bleeding. A ruptured spleen, fractured ribs. These were not consistent with the typical impact trauma of a car accident, even a severe one.”
My breath caught in my throat. This was it. The medical confirmation.
“I noted bruising patterns that suggested blunt force trauma, inconsistent with seatbelt injuries or dashboard impact,” she continued, her voice clinical but clear. “At the time, your husband explained you were disoriented and prone to exaggeration. He implied you might have lashed out during your initial confusion. He also claimed you had a history of… mental instability.”
I felt a fresh wave of humiliation, quickly replaced by anger. He had preemptively poisoned the well.
“However,” Dr. Washington pressed on, her eyes fixed on mine, “my findings suggested otherwise. The force required to cause a ruptured spleen… it’s considerable. And the pattern of impact indicated direct, localized blows, not the generalized trauma of a collision.”
She paused, then looked at Auntie Mae. “Auntie, Nia’s injuries were consistent with a severe physical assault. Someone hitting her repeatedly, deliberately, with significant force.”
My head reeled. It wasn’t just a suspicion. It was a medical fact. Marcus hadn’t just arranged an “accident”; he had then come into my hospital room and brutally beaten me, exacerbating my injuries, forcing me to sign those papers, all while his smooth lies convinced the hospital staff I was unstable.
The sheer depravity of it made me nauseous. He had almost killed me, then almost killed me again, all for money, all to cover his debts to the Maestro.
“So, the internal bleeding, the fractured ribs… that was from him beating me?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Dr. Washington nodded. “It is highly probable. The timing of your collapse and the nature of your internal injuries, combined with the recording you’ve presented, strongly suggest a direct physical assault, not residual effects of the car crash.”
Auntie Mae placed a reassuring hand on my arm. “This is it, Nia. This is the proof. Medical confirmation of the assault, and an audio confession of the attempted murder. It’s solid.”
The fear was still there, but now it was a cold, sharp blade, honed by rage. Marcus hadn’t just betrayed me; he had tried to erase me, to beat the life out of me in a hospital bed, shielded by his lies. The thought of him walking free, continuing his charade, was unbearable.
“What do we do now?” I asked, looking from Dr. Washington to Auntie Mae.
Dr. Washington sighed. “Legally, with this recording and my medical notes, you could go to the police. It’s strong evidence of attempted murder and aggravated assault.”
“But Marcus has his network,” I countered. “He’ll twist it, delay it. He’ll make it a protracted legal battle, another public spectacle. He’ll drag my name through the mud, and Malik will be caught in the middle.”
Auntie Mae’s gaze was steady. “There’s another way, child. One where Marcus won’t have the luxury of lawyers and public opinion. One where justice is… swifter. More final.”
Her words hung in the air, hinting at the informal network, the street-level justice that operated outside the law. A terrifying thought, yet increasingly appealing. Marcus didn’t deserve the measured pace of the legal system. He deserved to face the consequences of the world he had chosen to inhabit. The world of The Maestro.
I nodded slowly, my decision forming. “Then that’s the way we go. Whatever it takes.”
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