Chapter 2 - THE MESSAGE HIDDEN BENEATH HER PILLOW
At 2:17 a.m., Rosalie's heart monitor began screaming.
I was on my feet before the nurse reached the door.
Three medical professionals rushed into the room. One pushed me back while another checked the ventilator, and Dr. Higgins appeared from the adjoining corridor, pulling on a pair of gloves.
For thirty seconds, I could hear nothing except the monitor.
Then the rhythm steadied.
"She's stable," Dr. Higgins announced.
I gripped the metal railing outside the room until my knuckles whitened.
"What happened?"
"Her blood pressure dropped. Given the extent of her injuries, complications are a constant concern."
"Is she going to survive?"
The doctor looked at me with the weary honesty of a man who had delivered too many bad answers.
"I can't promise you that. The next forty-eight hours are critical."
I watched him disappear into the room.
Through the glass, I saw a nurse adjust Rosalie's blanket. Her fingers brushed the edge of the pillow, and something small slipped onto the floor.
A folded piece of paper.
I waited until the nurse stepped away before asking permission to retrieve it.
She examined the paper, checked with Dr. Higgins, and finally handed it to me with a warning not to disturb anything else.
My name was written on the outside.
Alex.
Rosalie's handwriting.
It was shaky, as if she'd written it while fighting to keep her hand steady.
I unfolded the note.
If they say I fell, don't believe them. Find the blue room. Don't trust anyone who says they were trying to help me.
Below that, she'd written six numbers.
Then the paper tore along an old crease.
I stared at the message until the letters blurred.
The blue room.
Our house had a blue guest bedroom, a blue-tiled bathroom, and a study painted the color of a summer sky. None of them seemed important enough to explain what had happened to my wife.
Unless I was asking the wrong question.
I turned toward the nurse.
"Who brought her here?"
"An ambulance crew. The call came in at 9:42 p.m."
"Who made the call?"
She checked the chart.
"Your wife's mother, Catherine Miller."
Of course.
I folded the note and put it inside my uniform pocket.
When I returned to the corridor, Catherine was standing beside the vending machines, speaking quietly on her phone.
"No," she whispered. "He wasn't supposed to come back until tomorrow."
I stopped.
She turned, saw me, and immediately ended the call.
"Alexander. You're still here."
"My wife is in intensive care. Where else would I be?"
Catherine's smile was thin.
"I meant that you must be exhausted. The family arranged a private suite for you at the Miller estate. You should get some sleep."
"I have a house."
"Your house is a crime scene."
"Then why is my mother-in-law so concerned about where I sleep?"
Her expression hardened.
"Because I am the only person in this building who understands what Rosalie needs."
"No. You're the person who arrived before the ambulance."
For the first time, Catherine's composure cracked.
Only for a second.
Then she stepped closer.
"Be careful, Captain. You have no idea what you're stepping into."
"I know exactly what I'm stepping into."
I glanced at her pearls.
"Someone hurt my wife. Someone knew she would be alone. And someone expected the story to end with a burglary report."
Catherine's eyes narrowed.
"You're letting your emotions interfere with your judgment."
"That's possible."
I leaned toward her.
"But my emotions didn't write a note asking me to find a blue room."
The color drained from her face.
I hadn't intended to reveal that much.
Her reaction told me I had.
"What note?" she demanded.
I smiled without warmth.
"Good night, Mrs. Miller."
I walked away before she could answer.
At sunrise, I left the hospital through a side entrance and drove to my house.
A sheriff's deputy stood outside the front gate. Yellow tape crossed the driveway, and two investigators were packing equipment into a county vehicle.
I showed my identification and explained that I needed to retrieve essential personal property. After the supervising investigator authorized limited access, I stepped inside.
The house smelled of cleaning chemicals.
That was the first thing that bothered me.
Blood had soaked into the hardwood near the living room fireplace. Someone had attempted to clean it, but the dark stain remained between the floorboards.
A broken picture frame lay beside the sofa.
It contained a photograph of Rosalie and me on our wedding day.
Her face had been turned toward mine, and she was laughing at something I had whispered.
The glass was shattered directly across her smile.
I continued upstairs.
The blue guest room was empty except for a bed, a wardrobe, and an old writing desk.
I searched the drawers.
Nothing.
Then I noticed the wardrobe stood slightly away from the wall.
I pulled it forward.
Behind it was a narrow door I had never seen before.
It opened into a small storage alcove with blue-painted walls and a ventilation grille.
On the floor sat a metal cashbox.
The six numbers from Rosalie's note unlocked it.
Inside lay a flash drive, a photograph of Catherine with a man I didn't recognize, and a folded document bearing the logo of Miller Aerospace.
The photograph had been taken outside a warehouse.
Catherine was shaking hands with a man wearing a black suit.
On the back, Rosalie had written:
The man who signed the order.
I opened the document.
It was a payment authorization for $250,000, transferred to a private security company three days before the attack.
The approval signature belonged to Catherine Miller.
But the recipient's name made my stomach tighten.
SINCLAIR STRATEGIC CONSULTING.
My father's old company.
A business that had been dissolved before I met Rosalie.
I reached for the flash drive.
A floorboard creaked behind me.
I turned.
Hannah stood in the doorway, pale and trembling.
"Put that back," she whispered.
I stepped between her and the cashbox.
"Tell me why my wife's family was paying a company with my father's name."
Hannah looked at the document.
Then she looked at me.
"Because," she whispered, "your wife wasn't supposed to be the target."
May you like
Before I could ask another question, she locked the door behind her.
And from somewhere downstairs, a gunshot shattered the morning silence.
