Chapter 4 - The Key to Room 412
The rain began to fall in heavy, slate-gray sheets as my old pickup truck rumbled onto the interstate heading downtown.
The windshield wipers beat a steady, rhythmic cadence against the glass: *slap-slap, slap-slap.* Every bump in the asphalt sent a sharp spike of agony through my lower back and up into my split jaw, but the physical pain served as an anchor. It kept the rage from blinding me.
I pulled into the parking structure across from The Grandview Suites at 6:10 PM.
The hotel was an old-money establishment that had tried to modernize with tinted plate glass and polished brass fixtures, but it still smelled of damp wool and old carpet inside. It catered to traveling corporate executives, quiet affairs, and people who didn't want their names written in standard registers.
I pulled my ballcap low over my brow to shadow my swollen jaw and zipped my leather jacket up to my chin to hide the bloodstains on my collar.
Stepping into the warm, carpeted lobby, I walked straight past the front desk. A young clerk behind the mahogany counter was busy checking in a couple in evening wear and didn't even glance up as I bypassed the elevators and took the service stairs on the right.
My knees complained loudly with every step, but I climbed up to the fourth floor without stopping.
The fourth-floor corridor was silent, carpeted in deep burgundy that muffled my boot steps. The brass sconces along the walls cast long, amber shadows across the numbered doors.
*408... 410... 412.*
I stopped outside Room 412.
The door was heavy, dark oak, fitted with an electronic card reader that blinked an intermittent, hypnotic green light. I pressed my ear against the wood, holding my breath.
At first, there was only the faint hum of the building’s air conditioning. Then, voices.
"...told you she wouldn't sign without the hard copy, Derek." A man’s voice, cultured, slightly reedy. Irritated.
"She doesn't have a choice, Julian," Derek’s voice came back, sharp and defensive. I felt the hair on my arms stand up. "Her old man showed up. He complicated things."
"Complicated things?" The reedy voice rose an octave. "You told me the old man was half-crippled with arthritis living on a pension in the county! If the grandfather is involved, this isn't a simple child welfare intervention anymore. He’s ex-cop, Derek! Do you have any idea what happens if he pulls my state prescription audits?"
"He’s seventy years old and I knocked his teeth down his throat an hour ago," Derek scoffed. "He’s probably sitting in an urgent care with an ice pack right now. He’s finished."
"And the child?" Albright asked. "Did the patch deliver the baseline dosage?"
"Full twelve milligrams," Derek replied, and the casual brutality in his tone made my fingernails dig into my palms until skin broke. "Vanessa made sure she took the oral suspension before we applied the topical. By tomorrow morning, her liver enzymes will be completely skewed. The pediatric metabolic panel will show chronic hepatic stress—exact match for the diagnostic code you entered into the court records."
"And my balance?" Albright asked.
"Two hundred thousand. Wired from the escrow account forty-eight hours after the judge assigns temporary custody to Vanessa."
"I want the wire confirmation number tonight, Derek. Or the electronic records disappear from the county server before the judge ever opens his docket."
I didn't wait.
I took the master key sleeve Claire had recovered from the floor. The keycard was still inside. Vanessa had dropped the entire package in her rush to get away.
I slid the plastic card into the lock slot.
*Click.*
The LED flashed solid green.
May you like
I didn't knock. I shoved the door open with my shoulder, stepping inside with the weight of forty years of law enforcement behind me, and slammed the heavy door shut behind my back.
***
