Chapter 11 - The Ghost in the Operating TheaterThe heavy silence of the Johns Hopkins surgical suite at 2:00 AM was normally Althia’s sanctuary. But tonight, the rhythmic, electronic blip of the heart monitor seemed to echo with a phantom voice.
"Dr. Vance," her chief resident, Kevin, called out quietly across the sterile field. "The cross-clamp has been off for fifteen minutes. Perfusion pressure is holding steady at 95 over 60. The tissue is pinking up nicely."
Althia didn't blink. Her gloved fingers finished the final row of running sutures with mechanical precision. "Good. The graft is secure. Let's close the sternum."
As she peeled off her bloody outer gloves and stepped away from the table, a strange coldness settled in her chest. It had been three years since she walked out of Sterling Memorial, three years since Preston Sterling vanished from her universe. Yet, tonight, the air in the hospital felt unusually heavy, charged with an inexplicable static.
When she walked out of the scrub room into the private doctors' lounge, her phone—which she kept strictly for hospital emergencies—buzzed violently against the mahogany side table.
An unknown number. Local Baltimore code.
She stared at the glowing screen for three seconds before pressing the answer button. She didn't say a word.
"Althia," a weak, raspy voice whispered across the line.
Althia’s breath hitched, though her face remained ice-cold. "Richard."
There was a long, rattling cough on the other end of the line. "I’m glad... I’m glad you answered. I know you have every right to hang up. But... I don't have much time left, Althia."
"If this is about Preston," Althia said, her voice dropping to a dangerous chill, "you are wasting your final breaths. I have nothing to say to him, and I care even less about what happened to his life."
"It's not about Preston," Richard whispered, a note of deep, soul-crushing despair breaking through his voice. "Preston is already gone. He lost everything a year ago. The board stripped him of everything, Cecily left him penniless, and he lives in a cheap studio apartment downtown, drinking himself to sleep every night."
May you like
Richard paused, gasping for air. "I'm not calling to ask for mercy for my son. I'm calling because of what he found in my safe three days ago. Documents, Althia. Documents that prove the Sterling Memorial board didn't just let you walk away—they orchestrated the theft of your original research back when you were engaged."
Althia froze. Her hand tightened around the phone until her knuckles turned white.
Related Stories
