Chapter 4 - The Man in the ICU
By the time I reached St. Catherine’s, security had already locked down the ICU.
I wasn't supposed to be there.
I had been awake for more than twenty-four hours, was thirty-one weeks pregnant, and technically should have been home resting.
I walked in anyway.
Rachel met me outside Madison’s room.
“She became agitated twenty minutes ago.”
“Vitals?”
“Stable enough.”
“Who visited?”
“Nobody authorized.”
That word mattered.
“Unauthorized?”
Rachel nodded.
“Camera caught a man wearing hospital maintenance scrubs entering the unit.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did he enter her room?”
“He tried.”
“Where is he?”
“Gone.”
I looked through the glass.
Madison lay pale beneath white sheets, oxygen cannula beneath her nose.
For months, I had imagined confronting my husband’s mistress.
In none of those fantasies had she been held together by sutures I had placed.
I entered.
Madison’s eyes opened.
“Lauren.”
Her voice was barely audible.
I remained beside the door.
“You asked for me.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not here for that.”
She flinched.
Good.
Maybe that made me cruel.
I could live with it.
“Who tried to kill you?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“Richard Carrington?”
Her eyes moved toward the door.
“Maybe.”
“That's not an answer.”
“I never saw the driver.”
“Driver?”
“My car didn't crash because I lost control.”
She swallowed painfully.
“A black SUV hit me twice. The second impact pushed me through the barrier.”
“Why didn't you call 911?”
“I did.”
I frowned.
“Then why Ethan?”
“Because I called him first.”
Of course.
Madison closed her eyes.
“I had found something.”
“My father?”
Her eyes opened.
“How do you know?”
“Tell me.”
She looked ashamed.
“Ethan and I found a hidden archive attached to Northstar.”
“And?”
“Carrington used shell companies to settle claims involving defective devices. Patients signed confidentiality agreements. Doctors were pressured. Some records were altered.”
My jaw tightened.
“How many patients?”
“At least forty-seven.”
Forty-seven.
Not numbers.
People.
Forty-seven families.
“And my father?”
“Thomas Bennett refused to sign off on the CVX-4 after he discovered internal test results had been manipulated.”
“Did Richard kill him?”
“I don't know.”
“Madison.”
“I don't know.”
Tears slipped toward her hairline.
“But I found a payment.”
I leaned closer.
“Who received it?”
“Evelyn Shaw.”
The name meant nothing.
“Who is she?”
“Was. She died last year.”
“What did she do?”
“Richard Carrington’s executive assistant.”
I stared at her.
“How much?”
“Two hundred fifty thousand dollars.”
“For what?”
“The memo just said containment.”
Cold moved through me.
Madison shifted and grimaced.
“There’s more.”
“What?”
“Your father made a backup.”
My heart stopped.
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“You said you found something.”
“I found an email from Thomas to somebody identified only as L.C.”
My initials.
Lauren Cole.
But six years ago, I wasn't Lauren Cole.
I was Lauren Bennett.
“That wasn't me.”
“I know.”
Madison watched my face.
“The email was written eight months before you married Ethan.”
“Then who is L.C.?”
“I don't know.”
The door opened.
A man in navy scrubs entered.
He wore a surgical mask.
Something about him bothered me.
His badge was turned backward.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Transport.”
“For what?”
“CT.”
Madison’s eyes widened.
I knew her schedule.
“No CT was ordered.”
The man froze.
I stepped between him and the bed.
“Show me your badge.”
His hand moved toward his pocket.
I hit the emergency button.
He ran.
Security caught him near the stairwell.
What they found in his pocket erased any doubt.
A syringe.
Insulin.
Madison wasn't diabetic.
A massive dose could have killed her while making the death initially resemble a medical complication.
Police arrived.
So did hospital administration.
Then Detective Noah Grant entered the ICU.
I knew him.
Not well.
We had met years earlier after my father died.
He had been a young patrol officer then.
Now he wore a detective’s badge and looked older around the eyes.
“Dr. Cole.”
“Detective.”
He looked toward Madison.
“Someone really wants your patient dead.”
“Apparently.”
“And apparently your husband was at the scene of her crash.”
“Yes.”
Noah studied me.
“You understand how this looks.”
“I understand exactly how everything looks.”
His gaze dropped briefly toward my pregnancy.
“You should sit.”
“Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Treat pregnancy like intellectual impairment.”
A tiny smile appeared.
“Fair.”
He opened his notebook.
“The man we detained is named Marcus Dean. Former private security contractor.”
“For Carrington?”
“Indirectly. He worked for a company Carrington has used.”
There it was.
A thread.
Not proof.
But a thread.
Noah lowered his voice.
“Lauren, six years ago, I was one of the first people at your father’s crash.”
I looked at him.
“There was something about that scene I never liked.”
“What?”
“Skid marks.”
My throat tightened.
“The report said Dad lost control.”
“I know what the report said.”
“Then why didn't you challenge it?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“My supervisor told me the marks were caused by emergency vehicles.”
“Were they?”
Noah's expression answered before his mouth did.
“I never believed so.”
My knees suddenly felt weak.
For six years, grief had taught me to stop asking why.
Now every answer seemed to contain another lie.
My phone vibrated.
Samuel Price.
I answered.
He didn't speak.
Someone else did.
A distorted male voice.
“Dr. Cole?”
I froze.
“Who is this?”
“Your attorney made the mistake of keeping one of Thomas Bennett’s files.”
My blood turned cold.
“Where is Samuel?”
A faint groan came through the line.
Alive.
For now.
The voice continued.
“You have something that belongs to Mr. Carrington.”
“What?”
“The flash drive.”
I looked through the ICU glass.
Ethan was standing at the far end of the hallway.
He had just arrived.
The caller said, “Bring it to the Bellweather Hotel tonight.”
“No.”
“Then Samuel Price dies.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“And after that?”
The voice paused.
“We start removing the people your father loved.”
My other hand moved instinctively over my unborn daughter.
May you like
Then the caller laughed softly.
“Starting with the smallest.”
