Chapter 8 - Twelve Minutes
David stopped hearing the room.
He saw Sarah.
He saw her hospital bed.
He saw the white sheet.
He remembered Kessler’s hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry. We did everything we could.”
“No,” David whispered.
Tom looked sick.
“Marcus recovered twelve minutes of deleted security footage.”
“Where is it?”
“Kessler took it.”
“How?”
“He followed Marcus to my hotel. Marcus came to warn me. Kessler attacked him.”
“So the blood—”
“Marcus’s. He was alive when I left.”
“You left him?”
“He told me to run because Kessler had a gun.”
Morales leaned forward.
“Why didn’t you call police?”
“Because for eighteen months I’ve been hiding financial crimes. I knew how this looked.”
“It looks worse now.”
“I know.”
“What did the video show?”
Tom looked at David.
“Sarah leaving the operating room.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
David gripped the counter.
“Walking?”
“No. On a gurney. But awake.”
“Where did they take her?”
“Service elevator.”
“Who is they?”
“Kessler and a nurse.”
David whispered, “Her name?”
“Linda Avery.”
Morales immediately sent the name to investigators.
Within minutes, they had an address.
Linda Avery had retired seventeen months earlier.
She lived alone outside the city.
Police arrived at 1:32 a.m.
Her house was empty.
Kitchen light on.
Coffee still warm.
Back door open.
On the table sat an envelope.
DAVID WARREN.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
Mr. Warren,
I have lived with this for eighteen months.
Your wife did not die during delivery.
Dr. Kessler stabilized her after the hemorrhage. She was weak, frightened, but conscious.
He told me to prepare medication for transport.
I questioned him.
He told me the transfer had been authorized privately by the family.
I believed him.
I should not have.
Your wife kept asking for you.
She said your name over and over.
David stopped reading.
His hands shook so badly Morales had to take the page.
She continued.
Dr. Kessler sedated her. We moved her through the service elevator into a private ambulance.
I later learned no transfer had been documented.
The following day, Dr. Kessler told me Sarah died during a second cardiac event.
He threatened my license and my family if I spoke.
I have never forgiven myself.
I recently learned he is watching me again.
If something happens to me, look at the property on Mill Creek Road.
Number 814.
David whispered, “What property?”
Tom’s face drained.
“No.”
Morales turned.
“You know it?”
Tom nodded slowly.
“Our father owned it.”
“What is it?”
“An old private recovery facility. Closed twenty years ago.”
David was already moving toward the door.
Morales blocked him.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“My wife was taken there.”
“Eighteen months ago.”
“What if she—”
He couldn’t finish.
Hope was suddenly more terrifying than grief.
Morales grabbed her radio.
“Send units to 814 Mill Creek Road.”
The answer came almost immediately.
“Detective, fire department is already responding.”
Morales frowned.
“Why?”
“Structure fire.”
David’s heart dropped.
“What?”
The dispatcher continued.
“Full building involved.”
Tom whispered, “Kessler is destroying it.”
Then another message came through.
A firefighter had found someone crawling from a rear door.
A woman.
Alive.
David stopped breathing.
Morales asked, “Identity?”
The answer came back.
“Unknown.”
A pause.
“She keeps saying one name.”
David’s skin turned cold.
May you like
“Which name?”
“Ethan.”
