Chapter 3 - THE WOODEN SAILBOAT AND THE LIE
The tires of the SUV screeched as I took the highway exit toward the St. Jude facility.
Adrian didn't speak for the rest of the drive. The air in the car was thick with a tension so heavy it was suffocating.
His brother was alive.
Awake.
When we pulled up to the gated entrance of the sprawling, gothic-style medical center, the security guard stepped out of his booth.
Adrian rolled down the window.
“I’m Adrian Moretti. I am here to see my brother.”
The guard looked at a clipboard, frowning. “Sir, nobody is allowed in the South Wing without explicit authorization from Marcus Cross.”
Adrian didn't argue.
He simply opened the passenger door, stepped out into the freezing rain, and walked toward the guard booth. I couldn't hear what he said. I only saw Adrian lean in, whisper something into the guard’s ear, and place the tarnished brass key on the counter.
Ten seconds later, the iron gates slowly swung open.
Adrian got back in the car.
“Drive, Sophie. South Wing.”
We parked near a secluded side entrance. The hallways were sterile, silent, and dimly lit. Margaret leaned heavily on my arm as we walked. She was trembling with every step.
We reached a heavy steel door marked Room 412.
Adrian inserted the brass key. It turned with a heavy click.
He pushed the door open.
The room was large, filled with medical monitors that beeped in a slow, rhythmic cadence.
Sitting in a wheelchair by the window, staring out at the rain, was a man.
He was incredibly thin. His dark hair was threaded with premature gray. His body looked fragile, broken by years of atrophy.
But the profile was unmistakable.
“Daniel,” Adrian choked out.
The man in the wheelchair slowly turned his head.
His eyes were sunken, but they were clear. He looked at Adrian for a long time. There was no recognition. Just a blank, hollow stare.
Adrian stepped forward, tears finally breaking through his stoic mafia exterior.
“Danny. It’s me. It’s Adrian.”
Daniel didn't react. He looked past Adrian.
His eyes landed on the elderly woman leaning against my arm.
Suddenly, Daniel’s hands began to shake. A desperate, broken sound escaped his throat.
“Maggie,” Daniel rasped. His voice sounded like dry leaves.
Margaret let go of my arm and practically ran across the room. She fell to her knees beside the wheelchair, wrapping her arms around the frail man.
“My boy,” Margaret sobbed, kissing his forehead over and over again. “I’m here. Maggie’s here.”
Daniel buried his face in her shoulder, weeping like a frightened child.
Adrian stood frozen, watching the brother he had mourned for twenty-two years cling to their former housekeeper.
“He doesn't remember me,” Adrian whispered, the heartbreak evident in every syllable.
“His memory is fractured, Adrian,” Margaret said gently, stroking Daniel’s hair. “The nurse told me he only remembers fragments of his childhood. He remembers the people who made him feel safe.”
Adrian swallowed hard. “He doesn't feel safe with me.”
“He was seventeen when he went into the water,” Margaret said. “You were already working for your father. You were already part of the life he was terrified of.”
Daniel slowly pulled back from Margaret.
His trembling hands reached into the pocket of his hospital gown.
“I kept it,” Daniel whispered to Margaret. “I kept it for you.”
He pulled out a small object and pressed it into Margaret’s hands.
It was a small, crudely carved wooden sailboat.
Adrian gasped. “I carved that for him when we were kids.”
Margaret looked down at the little wooden boat. It was worn smooth from years of being clutched in a sleeping man’s hand.
But as Margaret turned it over, she noticed something.
The bottom of the boat had been hollowed out.
Inside the small cavity was a tiny, rolled-up piece of faded notebook paper.
“What is that?” Adrian asked, stepping closer.
Margaret carefully unrolled the fragile paper. The ink was faded, written in the messy, panicked scrawl of a terrified seventeen-year-old boy.
Margaret read it.
The color completely drained from her face.
“Margaret?” Adrian asked, his voice tightening with panic. “What does it say?”
Margaret looked up at Adrian, her eyes wide with absolute horror.
She handed him the note.
Adrian read it aloud, his voice shaking.
“Dad didn't try to save me when the boat flipped. He held me under. Marcus was watching.”
The medical monitors beeped loudly in the silence.
Adrian’s father didn't hide his son because he was embarrassed of a coma.
He hid him because he was the one who put him there.
Adrian looked at his brother, the realization hitting him like a physical blow.
Then, the heavy steel door to Room 412 slammed shut behind us.
I spun around.
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Standing in the doorway, holding a suppressed pistol, was Marcus Cross.
TITLE: THE LEATHER JOURNAL AND THE MONSTER
