Chapter 2 - The Bracelet from Room 417
The hospital room that never existed
I did not sleep that night.
I sat in my study with Emily's photograph projected onto a wall while my head of security, Marcus Reed, searched every database we had access to.
Hospitals.
Insurance records.
Death certificates.
Ambulance logs.
Coroner reports.
Anything connected to June 14, ten years earlier.
Nothing matched.
The official story was simple.
Claire Cross died at the scene.
Emily Cross was transported to St. Vincent's Medical Center.
Emily died at 2:17 a.m.
I arrived at 3:04.
The body was identified.
The death certificate was issued.
The funeral was held six days later.
I remembered every detail.
The little white coffin.
The flowers.
The priest's voice.
My own hands shaking so badly that I could not hold the program.
I remembered touching the coffin.
What I did not remember was seeing Emily's face.
Because I had been told the injuries were too severe.
At 2:13 a.m., Marcus walked in.
"Sir."
"What?"
"We found something."
He placed a tablet on my desk.
"St. Vincent's patient archive for June 14 has been partially corrupted."
"Partially?"
"One record."
He enlarged the screen.
Room 417.
Emily Cross.
Admitted at 11:48 p.m.
Vital signs recorded at 12:11 a.m.
Medication administered at 12:43.
And then...
Nothing.
"Her death isn't recorded."
My stomach twisted.
"Then how was her death certificate issued?"
"That's the problem."
Marcus looked uneasy.
"The hospital says there was no patient named Emily Cross in Room 417."
I stared at him.
"That's impossible."
"I know."
He slid the hospital bracelet across the desk.
"The bracelet is authentic."
I picked it up.
There was something engraved on the inside.
Not a barcode.
Not a number.
A tiny cross.
I remembered it.
Claire had a necklace with the same symbol.
I had given it to her after our first anniversary.
"Marcus, find the nurse."
"Lena Brooks?"
"Yes."
He hesitated.
"We already did."
My eyes lifted.
"And?"
"Officially, there is no Lena Brooks listed as an employee of St. Vincent's."
I stood.
"Unofficially?"
Marcus placed another file on the desk.
"She worked there."
My fingers went numb.
"For six months. Her employment record was removed eight years ago."
"Why?"
"We don't know."
"Find her."
"We found her."
He slid a photograph toward me.
Lena Brooks.
Older now.
Dark hair.
Sharp eyes.
Standing outside a small apartment building in Queens.
My jaw tightened.
"That's where the envelope address leads."
Marcus nodded.
"I was going to send a team."
"No."
He looked at me.
"I'm going alone."
"Sir, the note specifically says alone."
"I know."
"That's exactly why I don't like it."
I picked up my coat.
Before leaving, I returned to the photograph of Emily.
Four years old.
Smiling.
I remembered her asking me for ice cream the day before the accident.
She had wanted chocolate.
I had promised her two scoops after work.
I never gave them to her.
Ten years later, somebody was asking me to believe that promise had never been broken.
At 11:40 p.m., I reached Lena's apartment.
The door was unlocked.
"Lena?"
Nothing.
The apartment was tiny.
A couch.
A kitchen table.
A child's drawings taped to the refrigerator.
Maya.
And another picture.
A teenage girl.
Emily.
My knees almost buckled.
Someone had been living with the belief that my daughter was alive.
I moved deeper into the apartment.
Then I heard a floorboard creak behind me.
I turned.
Nobody.
On the table sat a cassette recorder.
Old-fashioned.
My pulse accelerated.
I pressed play.
Static.
Then Claire's voice.
Weak.
Whispering.
"If you're hearing this, Nathaniel, then Lena failed to keep you away."
My breath stopped.
"I need you to listen to me."
The recording crackled.
"You must not trust Victor."
I froze.
Victor Cross.
My father's younger brother.
My uncle.
The man who had taken over my company after the accident because I had barely been functioning.
The recording continued.
"He knows Emily survived."
A long pause.
Then Claire said something that made my entire body go cold.
"And he was the one who ordered the car to hit us."
The cassette clicked.
Silence.
Then a man's voice came from behind me.
"She always was too smart."
I turned.
Victor stood in the doorway.
May you like
Holding a gun.
And behind him, Maya's mother was bleeding on the floor.
