Page 88 of Omega's Formula

“The treatment,” I say instead. “How is it going?”

The question seems to throw her. She blinks, her defensive posture shifting slightly.

“It’s... going well. The doctors are optimistic.”

“Good. That’s good.” I clear my throat. “I wanted you to know—the coverage isn’t going to change. Whatever happens between Nolan and me, your treatment is guaranteed. For life. I’m not going to use it as leverage or threaten to take it away.”

“Gee thanks.”

I laugh. “Okay, I deserve that, but I still want to reiterate that this has not changed. In case, you were concerned.”

Ellie is quiet for a long moment, studying me with those eyes that are so much like his. “I’m not.”

I shrug. “Could you just tell him that I want to talk to him please.”

She says nothing.

I start visiting Ellie regularly.

At first it’s about finding Nolan. I tell myself I’m gathering information, looking for clues, waiting for her to slip up and reveal something useful. But the days turn into weeks, and she doesn’t slip up, and I keep coming anyway.

She’s good company, actually. Sharp and funny and absolutely merciless in her assessments of everything from hospital food to the terrible romance novels she reads to pass the time. She reminds me of Anna in some ways—that same combination of warmth and ferocity, that refusal to take anyone’s bullshit.

I bring her things. Books she mentions wanting. Cookies from the bakery down the street that she loves. Flowers, once, which makes her laugh and call me ridiculous but she keeps them on her nightstand until they wilt.

She still won’t tell me where Nolan is and I stop asking.

Instead we talk about other things. Her treatment, which is progressing well. Her plans for when she’s discharged—she wants to go back to school, finish the degree she had to abandon when she got sick. My work, which she finds tediously corporate and doesn’t pretend otherwise.

The worst comes one day when she just turns and looks at me and says, “He really loved you,” she says finally, her voice softer. “I don’t know if he ever said it, but I could hear it. Every time he talked about you, even when he was angry, even when he was pretending he didn’t care. He loved you.”

Loved.Past tense.

“I know,” I manage. “I fucked up.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I’m going to fix it,” I say instead. “I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to fix it.”

She doesn’t look convinced. I don’t blame her.

The investigation into Alistair Wallace takes time. Building a case against a man who’s spent years perfecting the art of covering his tracks isn’t quick work.

But Sara is relentless, and she has resources now that Nolan never did.

“We’ve got him,” she tells me two months after Nolan disappeared. She’s standing in my office with a folder thick enough to choke on, a look of grim satisfaction on her face. “Three confirmed cases of research theft. Multiple instances of fraud. And the recording—we can prove it was fabricated. The audio forensics are airtight.”

“What does this mean legally?”

“For Wallace? Criminal charges. Fraud, theft of intellectual property, maybe more depending on what else surfaces during prosecution.” She sets the folder on my desk. “For Nilsson Industries... we need to get ahead of this. The research we bought from him—Nolan’s research—we built products on it. Made money from it. If this goes public without us controlling the narrative, it could be a PR nightmare.”

“I don’t care about the PR.”

Sara blinks. “Erik—”

“Draft a press release. Announce that Nilsson Industries is filing suit against Alistair Wallace for fraud and misrepresentation. Make it clear that we were deceived along with the original researchers.” I meet her eyes. “And include a public apology. To all the people whose work Wallace stole—including Nolan West. We’re going to make full reparations to every affected party.”

“Full reparations?” Sara’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “Erik, do you have any idea what that will cost?”