Chapter 7 - The Mercy Ward
Mercy General Hospital smelled of industrial disinfectant and stale floor wax. The waiting room on the third floor was harsh, lit by flickering fluorescent tubes that hummed with a low, grating frequency.
Marcus was sitting in a molded plastic chair near the vending machines, his tie loosened, his hair disheveled in a way I had never seen in all our years of brunch reservations and country club galas. When he looked up and saw me walking down the linoleum corridor, he didn't look angry. He looked hollowed out.
"You came," Marcus whispered, standing up slowly as if his joints were stiff.
"Is she alive?" I asked, keeping my voice flat, refusing to let the sterile hospital environment soften the sharp edge of my guard.
"She's in ICU," Marcus said, dragging a hand across his face. "Left hemisphere bleed. The doctors said her blood pressure spiked right after she got a call from Arthur Vance's office Saturday night. Something about an asset freeze on the house."
I didn't blink. "She brought it on herself, Marcus. You both did."
"I didn't know about the corporate routing, Claire!" Marcus suddenly snapped, his voice echoing too loudly down the quiet hallway, causing a passing nurse to shoot us a warning glance. He lowered his voice, his shoulders shaking with a mixture of grief and unadulterated terror. "I swear to God, I just thought Mom was good at shuffling loans. I didn't know Vance was using us as a laundry machine for Meridian Financial."
"You signed the supplemental transfer authorizations for your BMW lease using Veritas Holdings funds, Marcus," I said quietly, pulling out my phone and showing him a single screenshot of the ledger entry from my local drive. "Your name is right there on line four. If the federal investigators trace this—and they are, because I uploaded the master file an hour ago—you aren't just an ignorant bystander. You're a co-conspirator."
Marcus stared at the screen, his face draining of all color until he looked like porcelain. He sank back down into the plastic chair, burying his face in his hands. For a long moment, the only sound was the distant hum of the vending machine compressor.
"What are we going to do?" he muttered into his palms. "The house is going to be seized. Dad is completely lost—he hasn't said three words since we got to the hospital. And Brittany... Brittany packed up her kids and drove back to her husband's place in Naperville the second she heard the accounts were locked."
"She abandoned her own mother in the ICU?" I asked, a bitter taste rising in my mouth.
"Brittany only cares about her credit score," Marcus said bitterly. "She realized the moment Mom went down that there was no more money coming. So she cut the cord."
I looked down at my brother—the golden boy who had spent a decade treating me like a personal bank teller, now broken and terrified in a hospital hallway. The anger I had carried out of that Thanksgiving dining room didn't vanish, but it shifted, turning from hot, blinding fury into something much heavier and more complicated.
Before I could answer, the double doors of the ICU unit swung open, and a tired-looking doctor in scrubs stepped out, scanning the waiting area.
"Family of Patricia Morgan?"
Marcus and I both stood up immediately.
"I'm her son," Marcus said, stepping forward. "How is she?"
"She's stabilized for the moment," the doctor said cautiously, pulling down his surgical mask. "The bleeding has stopped, but she’s very weak. She regained consciousness for a few minutes. She's asking for Claire."
Marcus turned slowly and looked at me. His eyes were wide, pleading, and entirely stripped of pride.
May you like
"Go," he whispered. "She won't talk to me. She only wants you."
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