Chapter 7 - The Emergency Ward
The flashing red and blue lights of the ambulance painted the drawn blinds of the master bedroom in rhythmic, pulsing waves.
The Worthington neighborhood, normally so tranquil and private, was suddenly alive with onlookers. Neighbors stood on their front porches in the gathering dusk, whispering behind manicured hedges as two uniformed officers escorted Eleanor onto the front porch.
She was screeching like a wounded animal.
“You have no right! This is my husband! Marcus, you vindictive bastard, I will have your law license stripped for this! Get your hands off me!”
The officer holding her arm didn't flinch. “Ma'am, you are not under arrest at this moment, but you are being detained under a temporary protective order. Sit on the porch steps and keep your hands visible, or you *will* be placed in the back of the cruiser.”
Inside the bedroom, the paramedics worked with practiced, frantic efficiency.
“Blood pressure is 85 over 50,” one of the EMTs called out, wrapping a cuff around my father’s bruised arm. “Pulse is thready. Pupils are sluggish. We’re administering oxygen and starting an IV with saline. What did he receive?”
Dr. Steven Morris was cornered against the master bathroom door, flanked by the second police officer. His hands were shaking so badly that he dropped his leather prescription ledger.
“Diazepam,” Morris stammered, his clinical arrogance completely evaporated. “Ten milligrams… intramuscular.”
“And what else over the last six months?” Uncle Marcus demanded, stepping into the room like an approaching storm. He pulled a legal folio from beneath his trench coat, flipping open the documented notes Dad had left in the bank vault. “Donepezil? Lorazepam? Haloperidol? Without a neurological diagnosis from a certified hospital specialist?”
Morris swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing erratically. “I… I was treating him for agitation at the family’s request—”
“You were chemically subduing a key witness in a multi-million-dollar corporate fraud investigation,” Marcus interrupted, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register that made Morris shrink back. “Officer, take Dr. Morris’s medical kit, his car keys, and his phone into custody. I’ve already contacted the state medical board’s disciplinary counsel. His license is being suspended on an emergency injunction within the hour.”
Morris slumped against the doorframe, his face completely pale, realizing his career was effectively over.
I knelt beside the bed, taking my father’s cold, calloused hand between both of mine. “Dad? Daddy, can you hear me? It’s Jenna. You’re safe now. We’re getting you out of here.”
Arthur’s eyelids fluttered. Beneath the heavy sedation, his fingers gave the faintest, trembling squeeze against my palm. A single tear tracked down through the deep creases of his weathered cheek, disappearing into his silver stubble.
“Hold on, Dad,” I whispered, kissing his forehead. “I’m not leaving you.”
The paramedics loaded Arthur onto the stretcher, securing the straps, and wheeled him down the hallway and out into the cool evening air. I followed directly behind, Uncle Marcus keeping pace beside me, his heavy hand resting reassuringly on my shoulder.
As we walked past Eleanor on the front porch, she looked up at me. Her hair was disheveled, her expensive cashmere sweater rumpled, her face contorted with pure, unadulterated venom.
“You ungrateful little bitch,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “After everything I gave you. After everything this family did for you. You destroy your own brother? You destroy our name?”
I stopped on the stone steps.
I looked down at the woman who had brought me into the world—a woman who had spent fifty years demanding blind obedience while cultivating a rot so deep it had poisoned everything it touched.
“David was my family, Eleanor,” I said, my voice steady, ringing out clearly in the quiet suburban street so every neighbor could hear. “Lily is my family. Dad is my family. You and Mark are just criminals who happen to share my DNA.”
She gasped, her chest heaving, but before she could speak, Uncle Marcus stepped forward.
“Eleanor,” Marcus said, pulling a folded court document from his coat pocket and dropping it into her lap. “You are hereby served. Arthur’s conservatorship petition has been vacated by emergency injunction. Arthur’s original 2018 Power of Attorney has been reinstated, naming Jenna as sole healthcare proxy and me as legal conservator. You have two hours to pack a single suitcase. By nine o'clock tonight, the locks on this house will be changed. If you set foot on this property again without a court escort, you will be arrested for criminal trespassing.”
“This is my house!” Eleanor shrieked, standing up, but the police officer immediately pushed her back down by her shoulders. “Arthur and I own this house jointly!”
“Vance Machine Works owns this house, Eleanor,” Marcus replied with icy precision. “And since Mark pledged all corporate real estate assets as collateral against his fraudulent business loans, the property is currently under federal receivership. You don't own a single brick. Good evening, Eleanor.”
We climbed into Uncle Marcus’s Lincoln Continental and followed the ambulance’s flashing lights toward Ohio State University Wexner Medical Center.
During the fifteen-minute drive through the rain-slicked city streets, Marcus made two phone calls. The first was to the Franklin County Prosecuting Attorney’s Special Investigations Unit.
The second was to a friend in the Ohio State Highway Patrol Cold Case Division.
“Jim?” Marcus said into the phone. “This is Marcus Vance. Remember that fatal hit-and-run on Route 315 three years ago? David Miller? Civil engineer?”
There was a pause on the line.
Marcus’s jaw hardened like granite.
May you like
“I have the vehicle identification logs, the scrapper receipts, the eyewitness testimony, and the driver’s current location. Issue an arrest warrant for Mark Vance. Right now.”
***
