Chapter 8 - The Sixteen-Minute CurseThe sterile lights of the private surgical wing at New York Presbyterian flashed overhead like strobes of judgment.
Three years ago, it had been Claire and Noah. Sixteen minutes too late. Sixteen minutes that divided my life into before and after.
Now, sitting on the cold plastic chairs of the waiting room, my hands stained with a little girl's blood, I looked at the digital wall clock.
Minute one. Minute two. Minute three.
Every tick of the second hand felt like a rusty nail driven into my brain. The cancer in my chest flared up, a blinding, white-hot agony that made my vision swim, but I didn't care. I couldn't feel my own body. I only felt the lingering warmth of Lucy’s hand against my chest.
Marcus walked back and forth, his face grim, his knuckles bruised from where he had struck Raymond. "The federal marshals have custody of your brother, boss. He’s going away for attempted murder, embezzlement, and a dozen other federal counts. He’ll never see the light of day again."
"I don't care about Raymond," I rasped, my voice hollow, stripped of all authority and power. "If she dies... I die with her, Marcus. Do you hear me? My life ends in this room."
"She's a fighter, Mr. Hale," Marcus said softly, resting a heavy hand on my shoulder. "She survived the streets alone at seven years old. She's not going to give up now."
Ten agonizing hours later, the heavy oak doors of the operating theater swung open.
Dr. Sarah Vance, one of the top pediatric trauma surgeons in the country, stepped out, peeling off her blood-stained surgical gloves. Her face was exhausted, her eyes lined with fatigue, but as she looked at me, a faint, weary smile touched her lips.
I stood up, my knees trembling so violently I had to grab the back of the plastic chair for support. "Doctor...?"
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"The bullet missed her heart by millimeters, Mr. Hale," Dr. Vance said, letting out a long breath. "We extracted the round, repaired the torn rotator cuff, and stopped the internal bleeding. She’s stable. She’s resting in the ICU."
The iron band around my chest shattered. I sank back onto the chair, burying my face in my blood-stained hands as a dry, heaving sob broke out of my chest—the first time I had truly cried since the day Claire and Noah were taken from me.
