Chapter 2 - The Emergency Room Waiting Area
The waiting room of St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital smelled of industrial floor wax, old coffee, and cold fear. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead with an irritating, high-pitched whine that matched the frantic rhythm of my own thoughts.
Sarah was still behind the double doors of the trauma ICU unit. Doctors had quickly wheeled Arthur into surgery to repair the deep gash on his arm, stem the internal bleeding exacerbated by his blood thinners, and check for concussion trauma. For over an hour, none of us had heard a single word from the medical staff.
Aunt Linda sat on a plastic waiting room chair, nervously shredding a paper coffee cup between her fingers. Uncle Paul paced back and forth near the entrance doors, his boots clicking rhythmically against the linoleum.
I sat in the corner farthest from the nurses' station, my coat zipped up, with my hand resting deep inside the interior pocket where Arthur’s phone lay. The metal casing was still cool.
The automatic sliding doors swished open, and Marcus strode into the waiting room. He looked frantic, his hair disheveled, his expensive leather jacket spattered with mud from where Paul had shoved him. He scanned the room, spotted us, and marched straight toward my corner.
“Where is he?” Marcus demanded, his voice echoing too loudly in the quiet space. A nurse at the front desk shot him a lethal warning glare. Marcus lowered his tone, but the aggression didn’t leave his posture. “Where’s Sarah? I need to talk to my sister. You people are turning her against me over some stupid misunderstanding.”
“Keep your voice down, Marcus,” Paul warned, stepping out of his pacing loop and blocking Marcus’s path before he could reach my chair. “Sarah is in surgery with her father. The last thing she needs is you screaming conspiracy theories in the lobby.”
“Conspiracy theories?” Marcus scoffed, running a hand over his face. He pointed an accusing finger straight at me. “He’s the one acting like Perry Mason! Taking my dad’s personal property, looking through private files—it’s illegal! It’s theft!”
“It was lying in the dirt five feet from where your father was gored while you stood there screaming about how he brought it on himself,” I said quietly, pulling my hand out of my pocket. I didn't take the phone out, but the gesture reminded him it was there.
Marcus swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing sharply. His eyes flickered toward the pocket. “Look… let’s be reasonable. Dad is an old man. His mind wanders. He’s been obsessed with that trust fund account ever since Mom passed away. He thinks I spent it. I didn’t spend it. I invested it! In commercial real estate! It’s tied up, that’s all. When it liquidates, he’ll get his return tenfold.”
“Invested it?” Linda asked, her voice sharp as glass as she stood up from her chair. “Marcus, what are you talking about? That trust fund was supposed to be untouched. It was set up by Aunt Clara specifically for his medical care and upkeep!”
“It’s a smart portfolio diversification!” Marcus shot back defensively, his face flushing dark red. “I’m a financial advisor! I know what I’m doing!”
“You work at a regional brokerage firm selling mutual funds to strip-mall owners, Marcus, and you’ve bounced three checks on your mortgage in the last six months,” Paul said flatly, his voice dripping with absolute contempt. “Don’t talk to us about portfolio diversification. You raided his account, didn't you?”
“I didn't raid anything!” Marcus yelled, finally losing total control. Several people in the waiting room turned to stare. Marcus caught himself, lowered his head, and breathed heavily through his nose, glaring directly at me. “Give me the phone. Right now. Or I swear to God I’ll call the local precinct and report you for grand larceny of personal effects.”
“Go ahead,” I said, standing up to meet him eye-to-eye. I was a couple of inches taller than him, and the cold, unyielding silence I held him in seemed to shrink his confidence instantly. “Call the police. Tell them you want to file a report about a phone found at the scene of a life-threatening accident involving an elderly man on blood thinners. Let’s see how fast the detective wants to talk to you about the argument you admitted to having thirty seconds before the wild boar showed up.”
Marcus’s mouth opened, but no words came out. The threat hung heavy in the stale hospital air. He knew as well as I did that police involvement meant a full financial audit—and an audit meant prison time.
Before Marcus could formulate his next desperate bluff, the double doors of the trauma unit swung open.
Dr. Vance, a tall surgeon with tired eyes and blue scrubs stained with surgical soap and dried blood, walked slowly out into the waiting area.
May you like
Sarah was right behind him. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from crying, but when she looked across the room, her gaze didn't land on Marcus. It landed straight on me.
---
