Chapter 3 - The Ghost at St. Jude's
The words hit me like a physical blow, scrambling every thought in my head.
"St. Jude's?" I repeated, my voice tightening as my eyes darted back to Lily standing safely in the doorway. "There must be some mistake. My daughter is right here in front of me. My wife is in the kitchen. Who is this?"
"I’m not calling about your daughter, Mr. Miller," the voice on the line replied sharply, the background noise of hospital monitors and hurried footsteps bleeding through the receiver. "I'm calling about your sister, Claire. She was brought into our ER twenty minutes ago via ambulance following a severe vehicular collision on Route 9. She's unresponsive, and her condition is critical. We need family authorization for emergency surgical intervention immediately."
My stomach dropped into a bottomless abyss. Claire. My younger sister—the only family I had left after our parents passed away. We had spoken just three days ago.
"Clara..." I breathed, the name sticking in my dry throat. "Is she... is she stable?"
"She's losing blood internally, Mr. Miller. We don't have much time for questions. Are you coming?"
"I'm on my way. Do not touch her without my authorization, I'll be there in twenty minutes!" I snapped, cutting the call off before the doctor could answer.
I looked down at Lily, who was watching me with wide, frightened eyes, sensing the sudden spike of panic in the room. "Dad? What's wrong? Is someone hurt?"
"Sweetheart, listen to me," I said, crouching down and placing my hands gently on her shoulders, avoiding her bruised back. "An emergency came up with my sister—your Aunt Claire. I have to run to the hospital right now. But I am not leaving you here alone with your mother."
"You're leaving?" Lily's bottom lip quivered, tears welling up in her eyes. "Please don't leave me here, Dad. Mom is mad. She's going to be mean again."
"She isn't going to touch you," I vowed, my voice fierce and absolute. I reached into my pocket, grabbed my second, older smartphone—a backup device I kept in my travel bag—and unlocked it. I dialed a number I hadn't used in a year. "Come here. We're going to the car right now. You're coming with me."
"Marc?"
Elena’s voice cut sharply through the hallway as we stepped out of the office. She was standing at the end of the corridor, holding her glass of wine, her eyes narrowing as she saw Lily holding my hand and my car keys clutched in my fist.
"Where do you think you're going?" Elena demanded, stepping into our path. "And why is Lily out of bed? I told you to keep her in her room while we sorted this out."
"Move, Elena," I said, my voice low and dangerous as I pulled Lily slightly behind my leg.
"I'm serious, Marc. You are not dragging our daughter out of the house in the middle of the night because you're throwing a tantrum over a domestic disagreement. Put her back in her bed right now, or I'm calling the police and reporting you for parental kidnapping."
She actually stepped forward, reaching out a hand to grab Lily’s arm.
Instinct took over. I slapped Elena’s hand away with enough force to make her stumble back against the wall, her wine glass spilling red liquid across the pale floorboards.
Elena stared at me, her face contorted in absolute shock and rage. "You... you hit me?"
"I didn't hit you, I stopped you from touching my daughter," I snarled, stepping past her with Lily gripped tightly in my hand. "My sister is dying at St. Jude's Hospital. I am taking Lily with me. If you try to stop us, the very first person I will show the unedited cloud security footage to won't be a family court judge—it will be the detectives sitting in the precinct three blocks from here."
The color completely vanished from Elena’s face. The threat landed with the crushing weight of a sledgehammer. She froze, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly as the realization hit her: I had the proof. I had everything.
She didn't move another muscle as I pulled the front door open, ushered Lily into the cool night air, and slammed the door behind us.
Thirty minutes later, my sedan tires crunched across the wet pavement of the St. Jude's emergency bay. I scooped Lily up into my arms, ignoring the soft hiss of pain she let out as her back brushed against my chest, and practically ran through automatic sliding doors into the chaotic, fluorescent-lit lobby.
A nurse at the front desk directed me up to the third-floor surgical ICU waiting room.
I settled Lily into a plastic chair in the corner of the sterile, empty waiting area, pulling my jacket around her shoulders to keep her warm. "Stay right here, sweetheart. Watch the door. Dad is going to talk to the doctor downstairs for just two minutes, and then we're going to see Aunt Claire."
"Okay, Dad," Lily whispered, her eyes heavy with exhaustion.
I turned and jogged down the corridor toward the nurses' station to find the attending trauma surgeon. But as I rounded the corner, a figure stepped out from the private consultation alcove, blocking my path.
It wasn't a doctor.
It was a man in a tailored dark suit holding a manila folder, his expression grim and professional.
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"Mr. Miller?" the man asked, flashing a gold shield for a fraction of a second. "Detective Vance, City PD. I'm glad you got here quickly. We need to talk about your sister's accident—and the mysterious circumstances surrounding the brake lines of her vehicle."
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