Chapter 9 - The Escape from NorthwesternMoving quietly and efficiently, we executed our exit strategy within ten minutes.
Marcus bribed a night-shift orderly to sign off on an early AMA (Against Medical Advice) discharge form for Sophie, while I dressed my daughter in her winter coat, wrapping her gently in a warm fleece blanket so she wouldn't catch a chill in the freezing Chicago air.
Still half-asleep, Sophie leaned her head against my shoulder as I carried her down the back service elevator, bypassing the main lobby where reporters were still camped out.
We slipped out through the loading dock into the alleyway behind the hospital. The snow was falling harder now, thick white flakes swirling under the yellow glow of the streetlights. Marcus’s black Ford Explorer was idling by the exit ramp, its engine purring quietly in the cold.
"Get in, fast," Marcus urged, holding the rear door open.
I buckled Sophie safely into her car seat in the back, making sure her head was comfortable against the padded headrest. She drifted right back off to sleep, exhausted by the trauma of the day.
I hopped into the front passenger seat, slamming the door shut. The heater was blasting warm air, instantly thawing my frozen fingers.
Marcus put the SUV in gear and pulled smoothly out onto Lake Shore Drive, heading north away from the glowing skyline of downtown Chicago.
"How far to the safe house?" I asked, staring out the frosted window as snow-covered buildings blurred past.
"About an hour and a half, assuming the highway department has plowed I-94," Marcus replied, keeping his eyes glued to the slick asphalt ahead. "Once we're there, we upload all the Whitmore Hotel CCTV files to an encrypted cloud server. If anything happens to us, those files automatically drop into the inbox of the U.S. Attorney's office and every major news outlet in the Midwest."
"Insurance," I murmured, watching the white snowflakes dance across the windshield.
"Exactly. Your family is powerful, Evelyn, but federal wire fraud and assault on a minor? That's not something even your father's golf-club buddies can brush under the rug."
Just as Marcus finished speaking, the headlights of our SUV swept across a sleek, dark-colored sedan parked illegally on the shoulder of the exit ramp ahead.
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The sedan’s engine wasn't running, but its high beams suddenly flashed blindingly bright, cutting straight through the heavy snowfall and locking onto us.
Marcus slammed on the brakes, his face hardening instantly. "Hold on."
