Chapter 7 - The Voice on the Line
The receiver clicked as the secure line patched through to the wall-mounted phone in the corner of room 204.
Ethan picked it up before the first ring could finish, keeping his eyes fixed on Mia, who had frozen mid-step, her hands balled into tight fists against her sides.
"Lena," Ethan said, his voice low and measured.
For a second, there was only the hollow roar of city traffic and heavy rain blowing through an open receiver somewhere downtown. Then a voice came through—thin, raspy, and worn down to the bone by exhaustion and fear.
"Ethan?"
The name sounded foreign coming from her lips, yet heavy with a history Ethan hadn't known existed.
"You sent your daughters into my ER with a bent metro card and a suicide mission, Lena," Ethan said, keeping his tone steady so Mia wouldn't hear the raw tension beneath it. "Derek is tied up in my basement, and Raymond Vance is looking for a twenty-pound ledger that's currently sitting in my hands."
A sharp intake of breath echoed on the other end of the line. "You have the book?"
"I have it. Which means I know about the accounts, the judges, and the Wyoming Street fire five years before the warehouse went up." Ethan leaned his shoulder against the peeling hospital wallpaper. "Care to explain why Arthur Vance's municipal redevelopment files ended up under your pantry floorboards?"
Silence stretched across the line, heavy and suffocating. When Lena spoke again, the tremor in her voice was gone, replaced by a cold, brittle calm.
"Because Arthur didn't burn down the warehouse by accident, Ethan. And he didn't burn down Wyoming Street by accident either," Lena said. "He was clearing the titles so the syndicate could buy the entire riverfront for pennies on the dollar. My husband worked maintenance for Arthur. He found the draft contracts three weeks before his car went off the Jefferson Bridge. They called it a drunk driving accident."
Ethan’s grip on the receiver tightened until his knuckles turned white. The pieces weren't just falling into place; they were forming a blade aimed directly at his own throat.
"If Arthur killed your husband over those contracts," Ethan said slowly, "why didn't you go to the police?"
"To which police, Ethan? The ones on Arthur's payroll? Or the ones who closed the investigation into the warehouse fire before the smoke had even cleared?" Lena's voice cracked, a bitter edge cutting through the static. "I couldn't go to the police. So I waited. I cleaned Arthur's weekend office. I watched where he put the copies. And when Raymond started cleaning house after Arthur died last week, I took the book and ran."
"You shouldn't have run alone," Ethan said.
"I didn't have a choice! Derek was already at the back door," she shouted softly, the sound of a passing siren wailing in the background on her end. "Are my girls safe? Tell me the truth, Ethan. Is Rosie breathing?"
"Rosie is stable. The doctor says she'll make it," Ethan said, looking down at Mia, who was watching him with wide, unblinking eyes. "And Mia is standing right here beside me. She hit one of Raymond's men with a medical clipboard. She's tougher than you are."
A ragged sob broke through the static on the line—the first sound of vulnerability Lena had allowed herself.
"Put her on," Lena whispered. "Please, Ethan. Just for ten seconds. I might not make it to the bus station by morning, and I need to hear her voice."
Ethan didn't hesitate. He held the receiver down toward the little girl, his hand cupping the bottom edge. "It's your mother, Mia. She's on 4th Street."
Mia’s eyes filled with tears, but she didn't cry. She reached out with both hands, taking the heavy black plastic receiver as if it were made of glass.
"Mama?" Mia said, her voice small and tight.
Ethan turned away, stepping toward the window to give them privacy. Outside, the rain was finally slowing to a steady, miserable drizzle against the glass, washing away the grease and soot of the city.
In the reflection of the glass, he saw Vance standing hesitantly in the doorway, holding a yellow slip of paper torn from the teleprinter at the ground-floor security desk.
Ethan walked out into the hallway, pulling the door half-closed behind him.
"What is it, Vance?" Ethan asked.
Vance handed him the yellow paper. "We traced the IP address of the override code Raymond used in the archive room. It didn't come from a cloned thumbprint. It came from the administrative terminal on the fourth floor."
Ethan frowned. "The fourth floor is administrative. Only hospital executives and the chief medical officer have access after hours."
"That's not all," Vance said, swallowing hard. "The terminal was logged in under active credentials belonging to Dr. Helen Vance. Arthur's sister-in-law. She's the head of hospital administration, and she’s been signing off on our covert trauma fund for three years."
Ethan stared at the paper. The circle wasn't widening; it was tightening around his own house.
"Where is Dr. Vance right now?" Ethan asked.
May you like
"She's on her way up," Vance said, pointing toward the end of the corridor where the private elevator chime was just beginning to ring. "And she's not alone."
---
