Chapter 4 - SOMEONE INSIDE THE HOUSE
Emergency lights came on three seconds later.
Three seconds is nothing until your children are attached to machines.
Then it is an eternity.
I reached the medical suite with my weapon drawn.
Jonah was sitting upright.
Blythe was crying.
Franklin leaned over the backup power unit while Mara held Blythe against her chest.
“Daddy!”
“I’m here.”
I crossed the room and grabbed Jonah.
His thin arms locked around my neck.
Behind me, Prescott barked orders into his radio.
“Generator should have engaged automatically,” Franklin said.
“Why didn’t it?”
“Someone disabled the transfer relay.”
Prescott’s eyes met mine.
Not failure.
Sabotage.
One of my men entered.
“North service corridor. Camera seven went offline thirty seconds before the power.”
“Lock every door,” I said.
“Already done.”
Nobody entered.
Nobody left.
For eighteen minutes, my mansion became a cage.
Prescott’s teams swept room by room.
At 7:41 p.m., they found a man hiding inside a linen-storage compartment near the laboratory.
He wore Mercer security clothing.
He was not one of mine.
Prescott dragged him into the basement interrogation room.
I did not go.
That surprised everyone.
Especially me.
Five years earlier, I would have been the first person downstairs.
But Blythe still trembled every time the lights flickered.
So I stayed beside her.
Mara sat on the other side of the bed.
Jonah slept with his hand gripping my sleeve.
“Go,” Mara said quietly.
“No.”
“You want answers.”
“I want my children breathing.”
Something softened in her expression.
“Genevieve said you changed after they were born.”
I looked at her.
“She talked about me?”
“All the time.”
“That doesn’t sound healthy.”
“It wasn’t always complimentary.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
“What did she say?”
“That you thought silence counted as communication.”
“She knew that when she married me.”
“She also said you could hold a grudge against furniture.”
“That chair deserved it.”
Mara laughed.
A real laugh.
Blythe opened her eyes.
“What’s funny?”
“Your daddy.”
Blythe blinked.
“Daddy isn’t funny.”
Mara bit her lip.
I stared at my daughter.
“Thank you.”
She closed her eyes again.
Prescott entered twenty minutes later.
The humor vanished.
“Our intruder worked maintenance at St. Vincent Medical Center until three months ago.”
“Kessler?”
“Paid him.”
“How much?”
“Forty thousand.”
“For what?”
“He was supposed to destroy Mara’s blood samples and disable backup power long enough to create confusion.”
Mara’s face drained.
“Why destroy the samples?”
Franklin answered from the doorway.
“Because once the donor match is officially confirmed in the hospital system, it becomes harder to bury.”
I turned.
He held a report.
“Confirmation is complete.”
My heart started hammering.
“And?”
Franklin looked at Mara.
“You’re a suitable donor.”
Mara exhaled.
I closed my eyes for one second.
One chance.
We had one.
“When?”
“We start medication tonight. Collection in approximately thirty-six hours.”
“Can the twins wait?”
His expression told me not comfortably.
“We don’t have a better option.”
Prescott’s phone vibrated.
He looked at it.
Then at me.
“Kessler’s car was found near Navy Pier.”
“Body?”
“No.”
“Then he’s running.”
“Looks that way.”
The intruder had given us one more thing.
A number.
Not a phone number.
A bank transfer reference.
Prescott traced it to a company called Halloway Biomedical.
Mara heard the name and went still.
“What?”
She looked at Franklin.
“You know that company?”
Franklin nodded slowly.
“Experimental oncology supplier.”
Mara shook her head.
“No. It used to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Three years ago, Halloway lost its research license after falsifying trial results.”
“Who owned it?” I asked.
Mara stared at me.
“A holding company registered in Delaware.”
Prescott already knew.
“Vane Strategic Holdings.”
Crosby.
Of course.
Franklin sank into a chair.
“Kessler recommended Halloway products to the hospital research board.”
“How much business?”
“Millions.”
The motive was widening.
This was not only about weakening me.
Genevieve had found theft.
Fraud.
Perhaps medical corruption.
And Crosby Vane had known she found it.
I walked toward the window.
Chicago glowed beyond the estate walls.
For years, I had believed Genevieve died because a truck driver lost control on rain-slick pavement.
The driver had died too.
No witnesses.
No evidence of tampering.
A tragedy.
That was the official story.
Maybe tragedy had been convenient.
“Prescott.”
“Yes.”
“Pull every record from Genevieve’s crash.”
“We did that two years ago.”
“Do it again.”
He nodded.
“This time assume someone wanted us to stop looking.”
Mara remained beside the twins that night.
The donor medication made her nauseated.
She said nothing.
By midnight, her bones had begun aching.
I found her alone in the kitchen drinking water.
“You should sleep.”
“So should you.”
“I don’t sleep.”
“That sounds medically concerning.”
“I’m surrounded by medical professionals.”
She smiled faintly.
Then winced.
I noticed.
“Pain?”
“Normal.”
“How bad?”
“Not enough to matter.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
She looked at me.
“Seven.”
I reached for the intercom.
“No.”
“You’re in pain.”
“I know what helps.”
“What?”
“Heat.”
Ten minutes later, Odette brought a heating pad.
Mara sat at the kitchen island with it against her lower back.
I poured coffee.
She watched me.
“It’s midnight.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve had six cups.”
“Five.”
“That isn’t better.”
“Why do you care?”
“Occupational habit.”
“You’re not employed here.”
“Neither is my bank account.”
That earned another reluctant smile from me.
Then she grew serious.
“Lawson?”
“What?”
“If I don’t get through the donation—”
“Stop.”
“There are risks.”
“Stop.”
“You need to know where my papers are.”
“You’re going to wake up after the procedure.”
“You cannot order biology around.”
“I’ve recently discovered that.”
She slid a small brass key across the counter.
“Safe-deposit box. First Federal on Clark.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Genevieve left something there.”
That changed everything.
“What?”
“I never opened it.”
“Why?”
“She said it belonged to you if anything happened to her.”
“Why didn’t you bring it?”
“Because I was being followed.”
I picked up the key.
“What did she say was inside?”
Mara hesitated.
“A recording.”
My blood turned cold.
“Of whom?”
“She never said.”
At 1:13 a.m., Prescott walked into the kitchen carrying a folder.
He looked exhausted.
And furious.
“We reopened the crash evidence.”
“What did you find?”
He placed a photograph in front of me.
Genevieve’s black Mercedes.
Crushed front end.
Twisted passenger side.
Prescott pointed to the brake assembly listed in the original mechanical report.
“The line wasn’t ruptured by impact.”
I stopped breathing.
“It was cut before the crash.”
Mara closed her eyes.
Prescott continued.
“The original investigator documented it.”
“Then why was I told mechanical failure?”
“The page was removed from the final file.”
“By who?”
“We’re tracing access.”
I gripped the counter.
Crosby had not merely interfered with my children’s treatment.
He had taken their mother.
A sound came from the hallway.
Soft footsteps.
Blythe appeared wearing pajamas beneath her hospital robe.
She looked impossibly small.
“Daddy?”
I immediately went to her.
“What are you doing out of bed?”
“I had a bad dream.”
I picked her up.
Her head rested beneath my chin.
“What happened?”
“Mommy was calling us.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“What did she say?”
Blythe yawned.
“She said don’t be scared of Aunt Mara.”
Mara covered her mouth.
I carried Blythe back toward the medical suite.
Halfway there, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
Silence.
Then Crosby Vane’s voice.
“Two years is a long time to misunderstand a car accident, Lawson.”
I stopped walking.
Mara saw my face.
“So you finally found the brake report,” Crosby continued.
“What do you want?”
He chuckled.
“Not what I want.”
A pause.
“What you should be asking is what I intend to take next.”
I looked down at Blythe in my arms.
Then toward Mara.
Crosby’s voice dropped.
May you like
“Enjoy your donor while you still have her.”
The line went dead.
