Page 61 of Scarred By Sin

With another glance toward the staircase, she pulled a pair of latex gloves from the box on the table and worked them onto her hands. She sat down in her chair before pulling the stack toward her. She opened the evidence bag, retrieved the first journal, and opened it to the first page.

Helen Uche was in her mid-twenties when she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Nestor's earlier entries were meticulous. He included plants, compound names, dosage adjustments, and observations about her response to each treatment cycle. He documented her appetite, sleep patterns, and the progression of her symptoms. His tone was mindful and hopeful, the handwriting of a man who believed that what he was doing might save her life.

His efforts didn't work.

The entries grew shorter as Helen declined.

The compound adjustments became more frequent, more desperate.

Nestor began noting his own emotional state between the clinical observations, brief sentences that broke through the professional detachment.

“I cannot sleep. Helen asked me to sit with her this evening. She says the lab is too quiet at night.”

And then the final entry.

“She told me about her roommate today. About the life she left behind. She spoke about the things she hoped to do if the treatment gave her more time. I did not have the courage to tell her what I already knew.”

Brook set Helen’s journal aside and opened the next.

Ruth Okafor had been diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. The notebook's research structure was identical. Arrival, assessment, protocol, observations, decline, and a final page similar to that in Helen’s records. A woman who had been hoping for a miracle had died in a hidden room behind a bookshelf while the world outside continued without her.

Brook moved through the journals one by one, hoping Nestor had mentioned his daughter at some point over his experiments. The compounds changed as Nestor refined his approach, adjusting formulations based on what he’d learned from each previous patient. He was learning from their deaths, applying those lessons to the next woman who arrived, and the next, and the pattern was both disciplined and heartbreaking.

He never stopped believing he was close to a breakthrough.

And every failure drove him deeper into the work rather than away from it.

Brook set Ruth Okafor’s journal on top of Helen’s and pressed her gloved fingers against the edge of the table. The grandfather clock ticked from its place in the foyer. She could even make out the faint sound of wind against the stone exterior. Fortunately, nothing to indicate that Gwenyth had come out of her room.

Brook reached for the next journal.

The seven women had obviously come voluntarily. That much was clear from the journals. They had arrived knowing the risks, understanding that Nestor’s treatment was untested and unsanctioned, and they had stayed because the alternative was returning to a world that had already told them there was nothing left to try.

The cot in the lab hadn’t been a prison.

It had been the last bed they would ever sleep in, and they had chosen it intentionally.

She exhaled slowly and reached for the remaining journal.

The cover was the same dark binding as the others, but there was no name written on the front. There were no patient identifiers and no date ranges. She opened it to the first page, and Nestor's handwriting was there, in the same small, precise script, but the content had changed. These weren’t treatment notes. These were observations about daily life on the estate.

The greenhouse, the grounds, the weather, Porter’s work on the stone wall.

And Gwenyth.

The early entries read like a father’s private record of his daughter’s life. From Gwenyth’s schoolwork to a conversation that they’d had over dinner about the difference between annuals and perennials. He wrote with a quiet pride, noticeable in the way he lingered on small details that wouldn’t have mattered to anyone except a father.

Then the tone changed.

It didn’t happen all at once. It crept in between the lines.

“Gwenyth has become withdrawn. She no longer eats with me in the evenings. She has stopped asking about my work.”

Brook glanced toward the staircase. She hadn’t heard Gwenyth’s bedroom door open or caught the sound of muffled footsteps, but Brook sensed she was running out of time. She quickly skimmed the next few pages until a passage grabbed her focus.

“When I came inside from the greenhouse tonight, Gwenyth was sitting in the upstairs hallway. Not reading. Not doing anything. Just sitting. I asked if she was alright. She said yes without looking at me.”

A few entries later, the withdrawal had sharpened into something else.