Chapter 2 - THE GHOST OF THE PASTThe hospital emergency room smelled of bleach, antiseptic, and sterile panic.
Dr. Marcus Vance stood under the glaring fluorescent lights of Trauma Bay 3, shining a tiny penlight into the newborn’s eyes. Surrounding him were three nurses moving with practiced, silent urgency, hooking up IV lines no thicker than a pencil lead and placing an oxygen mask over a face that barely filled the palm of a hand.
“She’s severely hypothermic,” Dr. Vance said, his voice entirely flat, stripped of bedside manner. “Core temperature was ninety-one degrees when you walked through those doors, Ms. Montgomery. Another twenty minutes in that bin and her organs would have begun shutting down permanently.”
Eleanor stood frozen in the corner of the trauma bay.
She hadn’t taken off her coat. The hem was still caked in the foul grime of the alleyway, and a damp, unpleasant odor rose from the fabric. Yet she looked completely untouchable, a marble statue carved out of pure, unadulterated shock.
In her right hand, clutched so tightly her knuckles had turned bone-white, was the laminated card she had found in the trash.
Jonathan Montgomery. Vice President of Global Acquisitions. Montgomery Enterprises.
Jonathan. Her younger brother. The golden boy. The heir apparent who had supposedly died in a private plane crash off the coast of Maine twelve years ago, taking half the company’s secrets and millions of corporate dollars down with him into the Atlantic.
“Ms. Montgomery?” A nurse touched her elbow gently. “You need to sign the intake papers. As the person who brought her in, we need your information for the Department of Child Services.”
Eleanor turned her head slowly, her dark eyes hollow. “She isn’t going to Child Services.”
Dr. Vance looked up from the incubator, frowning. “Excuse me? Ma'am, abandoned infants default immediately to state custody while an investigation is launched.”
“I am Eleanor Montgomery,” she said, her voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that usually made senior vice presidents pack up their offices. “This child was found on property owned by my corporation, wrapped in an artifact bearing my family’s name, and left by someone who knew exactly whose building it was parked behind. This is not a random abandonment. This is a message.”
Before the doctor could reply, the heavy automatic doors of the trauma bay slid open.
May you like
James Calder, the night security guard from Montgomery Tower, rushed in, breathless and panting heavily, clutching a heavy black leather briefcase against his chest.
“Ms. Montgomery,” James gasped, bending over with his hands on his knees. “I tracked down the security camera footage from the alley blind spot. You’re not going to believe who dropped her off.”
