Chapter 8 - AwakeningThree days later, the spring sun broke through the gray Minneapolis clouds, casting long, golden beams across the hardwood floor of Walter Campbell’s private recovery room at Saint Michael Medical Center.
The mechanical ventilator was gone.
My father was sitting up in bed, propped against a stack of pillows, sipping weak tea from a plastic cup with a trembling hand. Color had returned to his weathered cheeks, and though his voice was still raspy from the breathing tube, the fierce, indomitable spark in his eyes was brighter than ever.
"The board met this morning," my father said, managing a faint, tired smile as he set the cup down on the tray table. "Kenneth’s shares have been frozen, and the internal audit confirmed every single transaction has been reversed. Campbell Manufacturing is back under family control."
I sat in the armchair beside his bed, peeling an orange for him. "Detective Monroe said the trial won't take long. With the hidden phone, Janice's confession, and the forged documents, the prosecution has an airtight case."
Dad reached out, placing his warm, calloused hand over mine. His grip was stronger today—firm, steady, and unmistakably real.
"I'm sorry, Victoria," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I let a wolf into the house because I was too blind to see what was happening right in front of me."
"We both missed the signs, Dad," I replied softly, squeezing his hand back. "But we survived."
Suddenly, the door to the hospital room clicked open.
A nurse walked in, pushing a wheelchair. Sitting in it was an elderly woman wrapped in a woolen plaid blanket, an oxygen cannula taped beneath her nose, and a sharp, knowing twinkle in her dark eyes.
Margaret Foster.
"I hope I'm not interrupting a private family reunion," Margaret said, her voice dry and raspy as the nurse wheeled her to the side of the bed.
My father looked up, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Who is this, Victoria?"
"Dad, this is Margaret Foster," I said, standing up and pulling out a chair for her. "Without her, neither of us would be here right now."
Margaret offered my father a thin, knowing smile, extending a frail hand toward him. Walter stared at her for a second, then broke into a slow, genuine laugh—the first time I had heard him laugh in six years.
May you like
"Margaret Foster," my father said, shaking her hand firmly. "I've heard you used to run internal investigations for the state health department."
"And I've heard you used to be the toughest CEO in Minnesota," Margaret shot back, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Looks like we both made a habit of outliving the people who tried to bury us."
