Chapter 4 - A Woman in the Hallway
The screaming stopped as suddenly as it began.
A security guard rushed past my door.
Then a nurse.
Then Officer Mitchell, who had remained at the hospital to complete her preliminary report.
I pushed myself upright.
Pain shot through my ribs.
"What's happening?"
My father appeared at the doorway.
"Stay in bed."
"Dad."
"It's being handled."
Those three words had followed me through childhood.
Whenever something happened around my father's business, it was being handled.
Whenever men arrived late at night, it was being handled.
Whenever my mother cried in the kitchen, it was being handled.
I was tired of other people handling my life.
"What happened?"
He looked at me.
Then sighed.
"A woman tried to enter the maternity wing. Security stopped her."
"Who?"
He hesitated.
"Linda."
I felt sick.
"Why is she here?"
"She claims she wants to check on you."
I almost laughed.
Linda hadn't checked on me when I couldn't stand without help.
She hadn't checked on me after I vomited blood one morning.
She hadn't checked on me when I begged Ryan to drive me to the hospital because the baby hadn't moved for hours.
She'd called me dramatic.
Now she was fighting hospital security to see me.
"Don't let her in," I whispered.
Dad nodded.
"She won't come near you."
But then I heard Linda's voice.
"Emily! Honey, please!"
She sounded frightened.
Desperate.
Almost convincing.
"You have to listen! Your father doesn't know what you're getting into!"
My hands began shaking.
Dad stepped toward the door.
I caught his sleeve.
"Wait."
He turned.
"Let her talk."
"Emily—"
"Not to me. To the police."
Dad studied my face.
Then something like pride moved through his expression.
He nodded.
Officer Mitchell took Linda into a private room with hospital security nearby.
I couldn't hear the conversation.
But twenty minutes later, the officer returned carrying a small plastic evidence bag.
Inside was a silver bracelet.
My bracelet.
The one my mother had given me for my eighteenth birthday.
I'd lost it the night of February twelfth.
Officer Mitchell held it where I could see.
"Is this yours?"
I nodded.
"Where did you find it?"
"Mrs. Bennett brought it with her."
I looked at Dad.
He looked as confused as I felt.
"Why?"
The officer paused.
"She claims you gave it to her after admitting you hurt someone."
"That's not true."
"I understand. We're documenting the statement."
"Where has she kept it?"
"She says in a locked box at her house."
I stared at the bracelet.
There was something wrong with the clasp.
A small dent.
I remembered catching it on a chair years earlier, but that mark had been near the hinge.
This damage was on the opposite side.
"Can I see the back?"
Officer Mitchell turned the bag.
And I saw it.
A tiny engraving near the clasp.
Not the original inscription from my mother.
Something new.
A single number.
317\.
"That's not how it looked before," I whispered.
My father's gaze sharpened.
"What number?"
"Three-one-seven."
He looked toward Officer Mitchell.
"Do you have the bracelet inventory photographed?"
"Yes."
"Good. Please make sure it's preserved."
Then he stepped into the hallway and called Marco.
I heard him say, "Find out whether Greco ever used a property numbered 317."
I couldn't hear Marco's response.
But I saw Dad's face change.
He returned slowly.
"What?" I asked.
He sat beside the bed.
"Greco owned several hotels through holding companies."
"So?"
"One property in Chicago used to have private rooms on the third floor."
I stopped breathing.
"The room numbers started with three?"
He nodded.
"And room 317 was where a federal informant disappeared seventeen years ago."
I stared at my mother's bracelet.
"Who was the informant?"
Dad hesitated.
For the first time since he arrived at my apartment, he looked afraid to answer.
"Your mother."
May you like
The monitor beside my bed began beeping faster.
And my father finally told me the first truth he'd hidden from me my entire life.
