Chapter 4 - Shadows in the APartment
Leaving Dr. Vance in the consultation room, I walked down the sterile hospital corridor toward Room 412. Through the narrow glass window set into the heavy wooden door, I saw Sarah.
She looked impossibly small in the center of the giant hospital bed. A maze of clear plastic tubes snaked around her arms, connecting her to rhythmic intravenous pumps and a steady-beeping cardiac monitor. Her face was frighteningly pale, her skin stretched tight over high cheekbones, dark bruises shadowing her closed eyes.
She looked nothing like the woman who had laughed with me on Ocean Drive just a month ago.
"You can go in for a few minutes," a soft voice said. I turned to see a female nurse standing beside me, holding a clipboard. "Just don't overexert her. She's resting under heavy sedation."
I pushed the door open, the hinges making a faint, pathetic squeak. I pulled a chair close to the bedside, sat down, and gently reached out to take her cold, limp hand. It felt fragile, like dry autumn leaves.
"Sarah," I whispered, feeling a burning sensation behind my eyes. "I'm here. I got your letter. What did you get yourself into?"
Of course, there was no answer. Only the rhythmic beep... beep... beep of the monitor keeping score of her fading heartbeat.
As I sat there holding her hand, my gaze drifted around the sterile hospital room. Her handbag sat on a metal bedside table, the zipper partially open. Sticking out of the side pocket was the edge of a small, leather-bound notebook.
Instinct took over. I gently let go of Sarah’s hand, stood up, and glanced toward the hallway to ensure the coast was clear. The nurse was busy chatting with a doctor down the hall.
I slid the notebook out of her bag.
It was an old journal with worn leather edges. I flipped it open to the most recent entries near the back. The handwriting was shaky, erratic, scrawled in black ink as if written in a rush of panic.
October 14: He found out where I work. The hotel manager received a strange inquiry asking about my personal background, my maiden name, and my emergency contacts. It’s not the collection agency. It’s him.
November 2: I saw his car parked across the street from my apartment complex. A black sedan with tinted windows. He didn’t get out, but I saw the reflection of his face in the rearview mirror. It’s been three years, but I’d recognize those dead eyes anywhere.
November 18 (The day before she collapsed): He confronted me in the parking garage behind the hotel. He said if I didn't hand over the ledger by midnight, he would make sure Charles paid for my mistakes. He knows about Chicago. He knows about Charles. Oh God... what have I done?
My vision blurred. The room spun.
He knows about Chicago. He knows about Charles.
The threat wasn't just against Sarah anymore. It was directed squarely at me.
Suddenly, a sharp knock sounded on the open hospital room door. I snapped the journal shut and shoved it back into her bag just as a tall man in a dark trench coat stepped into the room.
He didn't look like a doctor. He didn't look like a cop.
He looked like a predator who had finally tracked down a wounded animal.
"Mr. Miller, I presume?" the man asked, his voice smooth, cold, and entirely devoid of warmth.
I stepped away from the bedside, placing my body subtly between him and Sarah. "Who the hell are you?"
May you like
The man smiled, adjusting the collar of his coat, revealing a gold-plated Rolex on his wrist that caught the fluorescent light.
"Just an old friend of Sarah's," he replied smoothly, stepping closer. "And it seems you and I have some very important unfinished business to discuss."
