Chapter 4: The Man in the Dark
The lights went out.
For three seconds, the hospital corridor became completely black.
Then Emma's monitor screamed.
“Code Blue!”
Someone shouted from inside her room.
I ran.
A nurse collided with me.
“Stay back!”
“That's my daughter!”
I pushed through the doorway.
Emergency lights flickered red along the ceiling.
Emma was still in bed.
Her eyes were closed.
The monitor showed a frantic rhythm.
A nurse was checking her IV.
Another doctor rushed in.
“What happened?”
“I don't know,” the nurse said. “The line was disconnected.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
The nurse pointed toward the floor.
The IV tube had been pulled loose.
And there was something else.
The window was open.
We were on the third floor.
I stared at it.
“How?”
Detective Harris appeared behind me.
“Everyone out.”
“No.”
“Mrs. Carter, out.”
“That is my daughter.”
“I need this room secured.”
A doctor grabbed my shoulders.
“We're treating her.”
I stumbled backward.
Then I saw him.
A dark figure standing at the end of the corridor.
Black coat.
Baseball cap.
Watching.
Our eyes met.
He turned.
I screamed.
“THAT'S HIM!”
Detective Harris spun around.
The man ran.
Two officers chased him.
The corridor erupted into chaos.
Doctors shouting.
Nurses running.
Security alarms blaring.
And somewhere behind me, Emma's monitor continued screaming.
They caught him near the parking garage.
His name was Malcolm Reed.
Forty-six years old.
Former security contractor.
Three outstanding warrants.
And, according to Detective Harris, a history of collecting debts for people who preferred not to use banks.
I sat across from him in a small interview room.
He had bruises on his cheek from the chase.
He didn't look afraid.
He looked tired.
“Why were you in my daughter's hospital room?”
Malcolm stared at me.
“I wasn't.”
“You were standing outside.”
“I was looking for something.”
“The vial.”
His eyes moved slightly.
I noticed.
“You know about it.”
“I know about several things.”
“Did you drug my daughter?”
“No.”
“Did you give my husband the sedative?”
“No.”
“Did you threaten him?”
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“Why?”
“Because he owed me money.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“That's not an answer.”
He leaned back.
“Your husband borrowed money from people he couldn't afford to disappoint.”
“Three hundred thousand?”
“More.”
I stared at him.
“How much more?”
Malcolm smiled faintly.
“Your husband was very ambitious.”
I felt sick.
“What did he buy?”
“Time.”
“For what?”
“To keep people from discovering what he'd done.”
“What did he do?”
Malcolm looked directly at me.
“You should ask him.”
“I am asking you.”
“You won't believe me.”
“Try me.”
He leaned forward.
“Your husband wasn't just selling medication.”
I held my breath.
“He was selling information.”
“What information?”
“Patient information.”
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Medical records?”
“Names. Addresses. Surgical schedules. Private details.”
I shook my head.
“Mark wouldn't.”
“He did.”
“Why?”
“Money.”
“How much?”
Malcolm shrugged.
“Enough to make three hundred thousand disappear.”
I stared at him.
Then I remembered the anonymous message.
ASK YOUR HUSBAND ABOUT THE THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS.
My voice trembled.
“Who was buying the information?”
Malcolm's expression hardened.
“That's where your husband made his mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“He sold information about the wrong patient.”
I felt a chill move down my spine.
“Who?”
Malcolm didn't answer.
“Who was the patient?”
He leaned closer.
“You.”
The room suddenly felt too small.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Why would anyone want my medical information?”
“You're asking the wrong question.”
“What question should I ask?”
“Why did someone pay Mark to find it?”
I couldn't speak.
Malcolm watched me carefully.
Then he said:
“Your husband was told to find out something about your past.”
“My past?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
He shook his head.
“I don't know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I don't expect you to believe anything.”
He stood.
Detective Harris entered.
“Interview's over.”
I looked at Malcolm.
“Did you come to my house?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Last month.”
“Why?”
“To warn Mark.”
“About what?”
Malcolm paused at the door.
“The people who hired him weren't interested in money anymore.”
He looked back at me.
“They wanted you dead.”
I walked out of the room shaking.
Detective Harris followed.
“Mrs. Carter.”
“Don't tell me to stay calm.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“Then tell me what you know.”
He sighed.
“We found something.”
“What?”
He handed me a photograph.
It showed my basement.
I stared at it.
A wooden storage cabinet stood against the wall.
One door was open.
Inside was a small metal safe.
My safe.
The one Mark had told me had been broken months ago.
“What is this?”
“Security footage from your house.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
My heart stopped.
“Last night?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“Who opened the safe?”
“We don't know.”
“Where did you get the footage?”
“Your neighbor's camera.”
I stared at him.
“Show me.”
He pulled out his phone.
The footage played.
A figure entered my basement at 2:17 a.m.
He wore dark clothes.
Gloves.
A hood.
He walked directly to the safe.
Entered a code.
The safe opened.
I froze.
“He knows the code.”
Detective Harris nodded.
“Only three people knew it.”
I whispered:
“Me.”
“Mark.”
“And Rachel.”
He nodded.
The figure removed something from the safe.
A small envelope.
Then he turned toward the camera.
For one second, his face was visible.
I stopped breathing.
It was Mark.
I didn't remember leaving the hospital.
I only remembered sitting in Detective Harris's car.
The photograph was still in my hand.
“Why would he break into our own safe?”
“I don't know.”
“He knew the code.”
“Yes.”
“He took an envelope.”
“Yes.”
“What was inside?”
“We don't know.”
I looked out the window.
“What if Malcolm is lying?”
“He may be.”
“What if Mark is telling the truth?”
“He may be.”
“And my daughter?”
Harris looked at me.
“That's the problem.”
“What?”
“The person who drugged Emma knew exactly how the hospital system worked.”
I turned toward him.
“What do you mean?”
“They disconnected her IV without triggering the main alarm.”
“How?”
“Someone with medical knowledge.”
My stomach twisted.
“Mark?”
“Possibly.”
“But he was with me.”
“Was he?”
I remembered the birthday party.
Mark had disappeared for several minutes.
He said he'd gone outside to get ice.
I suddenly felt cold.
“Detective.”
“What?”
“Where was Mark between 6:30 and 6:50?”
Harris looked at his notes.
“According to him, outside.”
“That's when Emma collapsed.”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Then something occurred to me.
“Rachel.”
“What about her?”
“She said Mark was beside her when she made the lemonade.”
Harris frowned.
“That contradicts what Mark told us.”
“Exactly.”
We looked at each other.
“Where is Rachel?”
Harris immediately called the hospital.
No answer.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
His expression changed.
“What?”
I watched his face.
“What happened?”
He hung up.
“Rachel left.”
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Where?”
“She took the elevator to the parking garage.”
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
I opened the message.
There was a photograph.
Rachel standing beside a black car.
Malcolm's car.
The message underneath contained only six words:
SHE KNOWS WHO REALLY POISONED EMMA.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message appeared.
BUT SHE WON'T TELL YOU.
A third followed.
BECAUSE SHE HELPED PLAN IT.
I looked at Detective Harris.
“Rachel…”
He grabbed his radio.
“Find her.”
But before he could finish, my phone rang.
Rachel.
I answered.
Neither of us spoke.
Then I heard her breathing.
“Sarah?”
“Where are you?”
Silence.
“Rachel, where are you?”
Her voice cracked.
“I'm sorry.”
“What did you do?”
“I didn't know Emma would drink it.”
My blood turned to ice.
“What did you put in my daughter's cup?”
“I didn't.”
“You just said you didn't know she would drink it!”
“I meant…”
“Rachel!”
She began crying.
Then she whispered:
“I didn't put the sedative in the lemonade.”
“Then who did?”
A long silence.
Finally, Rachel said:
“Mark.”
My heart stopped.
“But he wasn't supposed to be there.”
“Where?”
“At the kitchen door.”
“What was he doing?”
Rachel's voice became barely audible.
“He was watching Emma.”
Then I heard a car door slam.
Rachel gasped.
Someone had approached her.
“Sarah…”
“Rachel?”
Her voice suddenly became terrified.
“He found me.”
“Who?”
I heard a man's voice in the background.
Then the call ended.
My phone displayed one final message.
NOW YOU KNOW WHY EMMA WAS NEVER THE TARGET.
I stared at the words.
And for the first time, I understood the horrifying possibility.
May you like
Emma hadn't been poisoned because someone wanted her dead.
She had been poisoned because someone wanted me to believe my husband had tried to kill our daughter.
