The hollis code theyll k.., p.1
The Hollis Code: They'll kill to keep it a secret, page 1
The Hollis Code
They'll kill to keep it a secret.
HB Welbourne
Copyright © 2024 by HB Welbourne
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Book Cover by Luisa Dias
Editing by Kevin Anderson & Associates, Adrienne Kisner
Marketing support by Rodney Hatfield
First edition 2024
For Holly-bel
Contents
Prologue
1. Monday
2. Tuesday
3. Wednesday
4. Thursday
5. Friday
6. Saturday
7. Sunday
8. Monday
9. Summer and Fall
10. Christmas
11. The Truth
12. The End…?
About the author
Prologue
Five-year-old Caleb screamed, his terror shaking the ground, the trees, and the night itself.
“Run! Run!” Lydia’s voice broke through the chaos as she yanked Caleb through the dense underbrush, her heart a wild drumbeat in her chest.
Caleb's scream vibrated with an unnatural power, a force that rippled through the air itself, distorting the world around them. The crackle of energy snapped through the forest, and a sharp, acrid scent bit at Lydia’s throat, her breath catching as she gagged on the air’s sizzle and smolder.
The forest was a tangled labyrinth. Branches clawed at Lydia's clothes and skin as if the trees themselves sought to hinder her escape. The uneven ground littered with roots and stones threatened to trip them at every step. Overhead, the canopy of twisted limbs blocked out the moonlight, casting everything in a suffocating gloom.
Only the echoes of Caleb's screams illuminated their path, a sign leading them into deeper darkness.
Caleb’s small legs struggled to keep pace, his breath hitching with each ragged inhale, terror transforming his normally bright eyes into wide, glowing orbs. The undergrowth conspired against them, grasping at Lydia’s ankles, while the ominous footfalls of the men behind them grew louder, more determined, like the relentless beat of a war drum. Lydia's mind raced; she knew they were running out of time, but she couldn't let herself think about what would happen if they were caught.
“Mommy,” Caleb cried, his voice trembling. His eyes glowed faintly in the dim light—a sinister sign of the power stirring within him, a power that was no longer content to remain dormant.
The air around him crackled, making Lydia’s hair stand on end.
“I know, baby, I know,” Lydia whispered though her words were swallowed by the night. “But you have to stay with me. Please, Caleb, you have to—”
Before she could finish, a shockwave erupted from Caleb’s small body, sending an invisible force roaring through the trees. The forest responded violently, the towering oaks creaking and groaning as they were torn from the earth. A massive oak, its trunk thick with age, splintered and fell with a deafening crash, blocking the path of the men in pursuit. The ground shook beneath Lydia’s feet, throwing her off balance as she clung to Caleb.
She looked down at her son in horror, his eyes now glowing fiercely, alien in their intensity. The sight of him, bathed in that unnatural light, sent a chill down her spine.
“The prophecy,” Lydia thought, the panic rising in her chest like a flood. She had tried to ignore the warnings, the whispered fears of what Caleb might become, but the truth was staring her in the face now. Her son wasn’t like other children.
He was something else.
Something terrifying.
Not easily deterred, the men in black suits recovered quickly and fanned out with precise movements and unreadable expressions. They blended into the darkness, but their intent was clear—there would be no mercy, no escape. These men had come for one purpose—to prevent the prophecy from being fulfilled, whatever the cost.
“Caleb, listen to me,” Lydia begged, her voice trembling with fear and desperation.
But Caleb was beyond hearing. His fear had morphed into something more sinister, something Lydia couldn’t control. His small hands clenched into fists, and the air around him shimmered with a dangerous current that threatened to unleash itself at any moment.
“No!” Lydia tried to pull him close, but it was too late.
Caleb’s eyes flared, and with a cry of anger, he released a blast that ripped through the forest like a hurricane. The ground shook violently as another tree came crashing down, barely missing one of the men. The forest roared in response as if it, too, was angered by Caleb’s display of power.
Lydia’s heart pounded in her chest as she realized the horrifying truth: Caleb’s power was growing beyond her control, and worse, he was losing himself to it. She reached for him, desperation in every fiber of her being, but a searing pain suddenly shot through her chest. She gasped, looking down to see Caleb’s small hand pressed against her, his fingers digging into her flesh as energy poured from his palm. The force of it was unbearable, an agony that consumed her entire body.
“Caleb... please...” she gasped, her vision blurring as tears filled her eyes. But Caleb’s eyes were vacant, unrecognizing, lost to the power that had overtaken him. The strange force surged from his small frame, and Lydia’s body convulsed as it tore through her, her life slipping away in a torrent of pain. She collapsed to the ground, her fingers clutching at the earth, as the world around her faded to black.
Caleb watched her fall, his expression blank, his mind a whirlwind of confusion. He didn’t understand what he had done, didn’t comprehend the devastation he had wrought. All he knew was that his mother was no longer moving, and the cold, empty feeling inside him was growing.
The men didn’t hesitate. The leader, a tall man with a chiseled jaw and cold, calculating eyes, raised his hand in a silent command. One of the men stepped forward, pulling out a sleek black box. He pressed a button, and a high-pitched frequency filled the air, making Caleb scream and clutch his head in agony. The glow in his eyes flickered, the aura around him dimming as he writhed on the ground.
The men swiftly encircled Caleb as he thrashed weakly in the dirt. But Caleb wasn’t done. With one last surge of will, he unleashed a final shockwave that sent two of the men flying, their bodies crashing into the trees. But the leader remained unmoved, his expression hard and unyielding as he approached Caleb, a syringe glinting in his hand.
Without hesitation, he plunged the needle into Caleb’s neck, injecting a powerful sedative directly into the boy’s bloodstream. Caleb’s struggles weakened instantly, the light in his eyes dimming to a faint flicker as the drug took hold. He collapsed beside Lydia, his small body trembling.
“We did what had to be done,” one of the other men said, his voice flat. He glanced at the lifeless bodies on the ground.
The leader nodded, slipping the syringe back into his pocket. “The prophecy has been averted—for now. But we must remain vigilant. There may be others.”
Without another word, the men disappeared into the forest, their figures swallowed by the night. The moon cast its indifference over the clearing, illuminating the two bodies that lay still and silent, a tragic reminder of a fate that had been sealed long before the night began.
Chapter one
Monday
Monday mornings in Georgetown have a way of greeting you with a deceptive calm. The sun filters through the tall windows of my townhouse, casting leaf-dappled beams across the polished hardwood floors. Outside, Rose Park is just beginning to stir with the early risers—joggers making their rounds, the occasional dog walker strolling through the quiet streets. Across the park, the stately Four Seasons Hotel stands like a sentinel, its pristine facade reflecting the sunrise.
Inside, the air is too still, save for the soft padding of paws against the floor. Beau, my loyal Vizsla, is always the first to sense when something’s off. He’s beside me now, his amber eyes watching my every move as I stand in the kitchen, staring at the coffee I’ve just brewed. The steam rises in delicate curls, but I can’t bring myself to take a sip. My hand quivers as I set the cup down, the action too deliberate, too controlled.
“Come here, boy,” I reach down to scratch behind his ears. Beau leans into the touch, his body pressed against my leg, a small comfort in the otherwise unnerving quiet of the house. He’s been unusually clingy these past few days, almost as if he knows something is wrong, something I’ve been trying to ignore.
I move through the house, Beau at my heels, my footsteps echo softly on the floors. The townhouse is everything I’ve worked for—sleek, modern, and perfectly located. The large windows offer a view of the park, a daily reminder of the peace I’ve tried to cultivate in my life. But today, the tranquility feels forced, like a veneer that could crack at any moment.
As I pass by a window, a glimpse of my reflection stops me. It’s not vanity that makes me pause, but the unfamiliar face looking back. My brunette hair, usually tied back neatly
At 43, my half-Turkish heritage has helped soften the signs of aging—at least, that’s what people say. But today, even those traits can’t mask the weariness etched into my face. The sleepless nights and constant stress are showing, no matter how much I’d prefer to ignore them.
I kneel down beside Beau, his fur soft under my hand as I stroke his back. His tail wags, but his eyes remain fixed on me as if searching for reassurance.
“It’s okay, fella,” I say though my voice is barely above a whisper. “We’re okay.”
But even as I say the words, I know they’re a lie. Something is wrong. I’ve felt it for days—a tightness in my chest, a persistent nausea that flares up at the most inconvenient times, and a dizziness that leaves me clutching at walls for support. I’ve ignored it, telling myself it’s just stress, but deep down, I know it’s more than that.
I straighten, forcing a small, tight smile onto my lips as I head back into the living room. The townhouse is immaculate, every detail carefully curated to reflect the image I’ve worked so hard to build. The furniture is modern, sleek, with clean lines and neutral tones. A large abstract painting dominates one wall, its vibrant colors a sharp contrast to the otherwise muted palette.
Beau follows me as I walk over to the console table by the door and pick up the magazine that’s been lying there since last week. My own face stares back at me from the cover of Science Today, eyes bright with the confidence I can’t seem to muster this morning. The headline boldly proclaims The Scientist Who Cured Alzheimer’s: Dr. Denise West’s Next Frontier.
It’s supposed to be a triumph, a reminder of the heights I’ve reached, but today it feels like a mockery. I flip through the pages, skimming the article that details my latest project, but the words blur before my eyes. My hand trembles as I toss the magazine back onto the table, the glossy pages fanning out as it lands.
I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the growing sense of dread, but it clings to me like a second skin. I walk to the window, looking out at Rose Park, where a few more people have started their morning routines. The scene is idyllic, but it feels distant as if I’m watching it through a pane of glass that separates me from the world.
“Let’s go, Beau,” I say, more to break the silence than anything else. His ears perk up, and he follows me to the door, his tail wagging slightly. I grab my keys from the table, the metal cool and familiar in my hand, and head for the door. But as I reach for the handle, a sudden wave of dizziness washes over me, and I have to steady myself against the wall.
The room tilts dangerously, and for a moment I think I might pass out. But then, just as quickly, the sensation passes, leaving me breathless and shaken. Beau whines softly, nudging my leg with his nose as if trying to pull me back to reality.
I kneel beside him again, my hand resting on his back as I take a few deep breaths. “I’m okay, boy,” I murmur, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears. I know what I need to do, what I’ve been avoiding. The symptoms, the exhaustion, the doubt—I’ve written them off as stress, the cost of being at the top of my field. But deep down, I know it’s more than that.
I glance at my cell on the table, the screen blank, a silent sentinel. My fingers hover over it for a moment, hesitation warring with the growing sense of urgency in my chest. Finally, I swiped the screen and opened my contacts, scrolling down until I found the familiar name—Dr. Klein.
The hesitation lingers, but I know better. I know my body, and I know that something is wrong. The signs are too many, too persistent to ignore any longer.
I tap the number, then listen as the line rings. Each tone feels like an eternity, stretching out the moment, giving me one last chance to back out. But I don’t.
“Dr. Klein’s office,” a familiar voice answers, kind and professional.
“Hi, Jenny, it’s Denise West,” I say, my voice steady though I feel anything but. “I need to make an appointment. As soon as possible.”
There’s a pause, a brief rustling of paper on the other end. “Of course, Dr. West. We can fit you in over lunch. Does that work?”
“Yes, that works. Thank you,” I reply, feeling a mix of relief and dread as I end the call.
I hang up, then double over as a sharp pain stabs through my stomach. My hand flies to my abdomen, pressing hard against the ache. The tightness has been building for weeks—bloated, uncomfortable—but now… something’s different.
As I straightened, still gripping my stomach, I felt a ripple. Quick, almost imperceptible. I freeze, breath catching. That can’t be right.
I press again, harder this time, trying to convince myself it’s just gas or muscle spasms. But the sensation lingers, strange and impossible to ignore. Something’s happening, and I don’t know what.
The drive to the office is a blur, my thoughts elsewhere, focused on the appointment, on what it might reveal.
Dr. Klein’s office, nestled in the heart of Washington, D.C., is where science and medicine converge with a sense of destiny. The building is an unassuming brick structure tucked away on a quiet street, with a neatly manicured lawn and a small garden bursting with late-spring flowers. Dr. Klein is renowned as one of D.C.’s top OB-GYNs, with a reputation as polished as the upscale neighborhood surrounding her practice. This is where the future of countless families is shaped, where hope meets precision.
I stride into the sterile office, my heels clicking a staccato rhythm that echoes through the quiet hallway. The air inside is crisp against my skin, a welcome contrast to the late-spring humidity outside. The scent of antiseptic mixed with the faint trace of an impending storm in the air makes my stomach churn. As I approach the reception desk, Jenny looks up from her computer, her lips curling into a practiced smile—one so polished it might as well have been trademarked.
“Good afternoon, Dr. West,” she greets me, her tone bright yet formal. “Dr. Klein is ready for you. You can go right in.”
“Thanks, Jenny,” I reply, managing a smile that feels like it’s borrowed from someone else. My stomach churns as I make my way down the hallway.
Dr. Klein’s office is just as I remember it—calm, organized, with a wall of windows that let in the soft afternoon light. She rises from her desk as I enter, but there’s a hesitation in her movements, a brief delay that catches me off guard. Her usual confident stride appears tentative today.
“Denise, it’s good to see you,” she says, gesturing for me to take a seat. “How are you doing?”
Dr. Klein is a petite woman in her early fifties, with sharp, intelligent eyes behind stylish tortoiseshell glasses. Her short, silver-streaked hair is neatly styled, and she carries herself with a quiet confidence that usually puts her patients at ease. Today, though, her shoulders are rigid, a tightness in her smile that doesn’t quite reach those observant eyes. Her voice is measured, but there’s an undercurrent of something I can’t quite place—nervousness, perhaps? Concern?
I settle into the chair, crossing my legs as I try to find a comfortable position. “Not great,” I admit, my voice betraying more frustration than I intended. “I’ve been feeling nauseous constantly, and I’m tired all the time. I thought it was just stress, but it’s been going on for weeks now. And lately, I’ve been getting dizzy spells, too.”
Dr. Klein listens intently, her eyes narrowing as she processes my words. She nods, but her response is delayed as if searching for the right words. “It sounds like your symptoms have been getting worse. Have you noticed anything else? Any changes in appetite, headaches, or anything unusual?” Her fingers tap lightly on her desk, a small but telling sign of her nerves.
I shake my head. “Nothing that stands out. Just this persistent feeling that something’s off. I know my body, and this isn’t normal.”
She leans back in her chair. There’s a flicker of something in her eyes—worry, perhaps, or maybe something more. “It could be a number of things, Denise. Stress can manifest in a lot of ways, but I want to make sure we rule out any underlying issues. I’d like to run some tests today—nothing too invasive, just a blood panel and a urine test to start. We’ll check for any hormonal imbalances, deficiencies, or anything else that might be causing these symptoms.”
