Chapter 4 - Midnight at St. Jude’s
The fourth-floor corridor of St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital smelled of antiseptic, floor wax, and the sterile, heavy silence of midnight.
I crept down the hallway wearing a dark navy scrub suit and a white lab coat borrowed from the staff locker room, my sneakers squeaking softly against the linoleum floor. In my pocket, my fingers gripped the black keycard Nathaniel had given me.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every shadow looked like a security guard; every distant ding of an elevator made me jump.
1:58 AM.
According to Nathaniel’s security team, the closed-circuit cameras in this specific wing were programmed to loop a ten-second pre-recorded feed starting precisely at 2:00 AM, giving me a twelve-minute window before the system automatically rebooted.
I reached the heavy oak double doors marked: Dr. Marcus Vance – Chief Medical Officer / Executive Director.
I pressed the keycard against the electronic lock.
Blink.
The green LED flashed, and the heavy door clicked open.
I slipped inside, closing it silently behind me, and flicked on a small penlight. The office was vast, smelling of aged leather, expensive pipe tobacco, and old paper. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with heavy medical journals and law texts. Behind a massive mahogany desk hung a framed portrait of Dr. Marcus Vance smiling benevolently in his pristine white coat.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and moved to the desk.
“Evelyn’s birthday,” I muttered under my breath, remembering Nathaniel’s instruction.
Evelyn Reed had been born on October 14th—1014.
I approached the oil painting of the historical hospital wing hanging on the wall directly behind Marcus’s leather swivel chair. I gently lifted the bottom corner of the frame.
There it was. A heavy steel digital safe built directly into the concrete pillar.
I punched in the numbers: 1-0-1-4.
Bzzzt.
Red light. Wrong combination.
“Damn it,” I whispered, panic flaring in my chest. Think, Clara, think. If it wasn't her birthdate, what else?
Then I remembered the video. Evelyn’s sister. What was her sister’s name? In the medical records Nathaniel had briefly mentioned, her sister’s name was Sarah. Sarah’s birthday? No.
What about their anniversary? Nathaniel and Evelyn’s wedding date.
I punched in the numbers of their wedding anniversary: 0-6-2-1 (June 21st).
Click.
The green light flashed, and the heavy steel door of the safe swung outward.
My breath caught.
Inside the safe sat a stack of diamond jewelry, several bundles of cash wrapped in bank bands, and resting right on top—a thick, black leather-bound journal with gold-embossed lettering on the spine: Vance Medical Logistics – Confidential Ledger.
I reached in with shaking hands and grabbed the ledger.
As I pulled it out, a folded sheet of hospital stationery slipped from between the pages and fluttered down onto the carpet.
I dropped to my knees, picked up the paper, and shone my penlight across it.
It was a handwritten prescription order signed by Dr. Marcus Vance himself, dated two days before Evelyn Reed’s death.
Compound: Potassium Chloride and Tetrodotoxin micro-emulsion.
Dosage: 5ml intravenous slow drip.
Patient: Evelyn Reed.
Notes: Administer during evening saline flush. Will mimic natural cardiac arrest within 72 hours. Trace elements degrade rapidly in post-mortem tissue analysis.
My hands began to shake so violently I nearly dropped the paper. It wasn't just embezzlement. It was a signed, undeniable murder confession.
Beep.
The sudden sound of the electronic door lock clicking behind me made my blood run cold.
I scrambled to my feet, spinning around.
The office door was swinging open.
Standing in the doorway, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit with his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, stood Dr. Marcus Vance. He held a crystal tumbler of scotch in one hand, looking remarkably calm for a man who had just caught an intruder in his private office at 2:10 in the morning.
May you like
He took a slow sip of his drink, his cold blue eyes locking onto the black leather ledger in my trembling hands.
“Well, well,” Marcus murmured, a slow, condescending smile spreading across his handsome face. “If it isn't Mr. Reed’s little housekeeper. I must admit, Clara... I didn't take you for a cat burglar.”
