Chapter 3 - THE LOCKET IN THE ENVELOPE
“Where did you get that?” I asked, my voice suddenly entirely breathless.
Celeste looked down at the silver locket dangling from the envelope. For a fraction of a second, real panic cracked her icy facade. She tried to shove it back into her purse.
“It’s nothing,” she snapped.
I grabbed her wrist. Thirty years of lifting patients had given me a grip she couldn't break. “That belonged to my mother. It went missing the night my husband died in the ICU ten years ago.”
Thomas Mercer stepped forward, his eyes locking onto the jewelry.
“Let her go, Helen,” Thomas said softly.
I released Celeste. She stepped back, rubbing her wrist, her eyes darting between Julian and the elevator.
Julian was still staring at the authorization forms. “I didn't sign these. I've been in London for three months.”
“They are digitally verified, Julian,” Celeste said, regaining her composure. “If you try to expose this, you go down for it. The board will strip you of your majority shares. Your family’s legacy will be destroyed.”
“So you forged his digital signature,” Thomas said. “To protect your syndicate.”
“I secured our future,” she replied coldly.
“And the locket?” I demanded.
Celeste smirked. “Your husband was a very observant maintenance worker, Helen. He found out about the VIP arrangement a decade ago. He tried to blackmail the wrong people.”
The floor tilted beneath my feet. My husband, David, had died of a sudden heart attack while fixing the HVAC system in this very hospital. I had believed the coroner's report for ten years.
“He didn't have a heart attack, did he?” I whispered.
Before Celeste could answer, the young nurse in the blue scrubs burst out of the stairwell. She was completely out of breath, her eyes wide with terror.
“Helen!” she screamed. “It’s Mr. Alvarez! We’re in the basement! He’s in cardiac arrest, and the oxygen lines down there… they’ve been completely severed!”
Julian dropped the forged papers.
We all sprinted for the stairs.
As I ran past Celeste, I saw her pull a burner phone from her pocket. She wasn't calling for help. She was typing a message.
When we hit the basement level, the emergency alarms were blaring.
I pushed through the heavy fire doors and saw Mr. Alvarez lying on a gurney in the dark corridor. His face was blue.
I dropped to my knees and began chest compressions.
“Where is the crash cart?!” Julian yelled at the young nurse.
“It’s gone!” she cried. “Someone rolled it away!”
I pushed harder on Mr. Alvarez’s chest. One, two, three, four.
“Julian, breathe for him!” I ordered.
The billionaire dropped to his knees in his expensive tuxedo and began mouth-to-mouth on the elderly man.
Thomas stood by the severed oxygen line on the wall. He ran his fingers over the cut rubber.
“Helen,” Thomas said, his voice grim. “This wasn't an accident. These lines were cut with a surgical scalpel.”
Suddenly, Mr. Alvarez gasped. His eyes flew open. He clutched my collar, his trembling fingers brushing against my thirty-year service pin.
May you like
He pulled me down to his face.
“The doctor,” Mr. Alvarez wheezed, his eyes wild with fear. “The doctor with the black leather watch…”
