Chapter 4

I tried to contact Chloe, the nurse who claimed to be my colleague, but found she had blocked me. She seemed to have anticipated that I would confront her when I was at my wit's end.

Undeterred, I dug out my college contact list and called every classmate who might remember that lab photo.

"Bella, it’s not that I don't want to help, but you know how people online are now… I'm scared!"

"My wife is pregnant and can't handle stress, I'm sorry…"

Most calls went to a long busy signal before hanging up automatically.

The few that were answered ended quickly with hesitant stutters and sighs.

My supposedly deep friendships from school felt as thin as water-soaked paper in the face of the online mob.

But I wasn't disheartened.

Dragging my utterly broken body, I returned to the hospital, hoping to ask former close colleagues to help me access Lily Vance's past medical records through the internal system.

Even a tiny clue might help piece together the truth.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Hayes… You've already resigned and no longer have access to the internal system. Besides, this involves patient privacy…"

My former colleagues, who used to greet me with smiles, now avoided my gaze, whispering so low I could barely hear them.

Meanwhile, the donation page for Eleanor Vance continued to joyfully tick upwards, quickly surpassing the half-million-dollar mark.

She posted a new video, without makeup, her eyes swollen like peaches, bowing deeply to the camera:

"Thank you, everyone! My daughter in heaven will bless all kind-hearted people! I'll use all this money to hire the best lawyers to make sure the murderer pays! Once we win, I'll donate all the money to a children's foundation!"

The comment section was full of praise for her righteousness and kindness. And I was being screamed at by countless people to die.

As I returned to my apartment building, a shout startled me, making me stumble:

"The bitch is here!"

With that explosion from a middle-aged woman, rotten vegetables and eggs flew at me. From that day on, my home address was publicly known across the internet.

My doorstep was either piled with trash or covered in dead rats and foul, yellowish stench. My neighbors, unable to bear the constant harassment, and the building management, tired of being implicated daily, collectively petitioned me to move out.

Unwilling to cause trouble for others, I packed my suitcase and left that very night.

Unfortunately, when I tried to check into a hotel, the receptionist immediately refused me, claiming they were fully booked once they saw who I was.

After being turned away repeatedly, with nowhere to go, I could only call the colleague who had openly defended me. The phone rang for a long time before she answered.

"Dr. Hayes, please don't call me anymore. I've been suspended because of you, and the hospital has launched an investigation into me…"

The call was abruptly disconnected. In the cold dial tone, I leaned against the stained wall and slowly slid to the floor.

Guilt, like a creeping vine, squeezed the breath from my lungs.

Perhaps it was the days of fear, hunger, and utter exhaustion, but I fell ill.

My forehead was so hot you could fry an egg on it, and my throat felt like I’d swallowed razor blades.

Wearing a mask, I bought some medicine at a pharmacy and eventually found a cheap motel that didn't require ID.

In a blur of feverish awareness, my phone vibrated. It was an anonymous text message:

"Dr. Hayes, I’ve got a lead on what you asked me to investigate."

The dizziness from the high fever eased slightly with that message.

Just as I confirmed the evidence with the sender, there was an urgent knock at my door.

I opened it to find two police officers in uniform.

Behind them, countless flashing phone screens and prying eyes peered.

"Isabella Hayes, you are suspected of medical malpractice leading to death. Please come with us to the station to cooperate with the investigation."