Chapter 3 - The Ghost of St. Jude's
The library on the second floor was the quietest room in the house. Lined with three thousand leather-bound volumes, heavy velvet drapes, and a massive limestone fireplace, it had always been my sanctuary. Tonight, it felt like an interrogation chamber where the ghosts of my past were waiting to testify.
Emily sat on the edge of the deep green chesterfield sofa, holding a steaming mug of peppermint tea between both hands. She hadn't taken a single sip. She just stared at the swirling surface, her eyes glassy with shock.
Arthur Vance stood by the mahogany desk, his phone pressed to his ear, speaking in hushed, urgent tones to the county coroner’s office and his private investigators.
I pulled a wingback chair directly across from Emily and sat down, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. I wanted to touch her hand again, to pull her into my arms and never let go, but I knew that to her, I was still the terrifying billionaire employer whose wife had just tried to send her to prison.
"Emily," I said gently. "Take a breath. You are completely safe here."
She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing. "Mr. Carter... I don't understand what's happening. Who was that woman in the picture?"
I took the silver locket from my pocket and laid it open on the coffee table between us.
"Her name was Clara," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "She was my first wife. And eighteen years ago, on the night she died, she gave birth to our daughter. We named her Grace."
Emily looked from the photograph to me, her brow furrowing in confusion. "My name isn't Grace. It’s Emily. Emily Higgins."
"Who gave you that name?"
"My mother," Emily whispered. "Mary Higgins."
Arthur Vance lowered his phone from his ear and snapped his head toward the sofa. "Mary Higgins? James, wasn't that the head charge nurse on the fourth floor of St. Jude’s during the 2006 renovation?"
A chill ran down my spine. "Mary Higgins was Clara’s private nurse during her high-risk bedrest. She was supposed to be off duty the night the fire started."
I looked back at Emily. "Where is Mary now, Emily?"
Emily’s eyes filled with tears, and she pulled the tuxedo jacket tighter around herself. "She died four months ago. Ovarian cancer. We were living in a trailer outside Chattanooga. I worked two jobs to pay for her hospice care, but... she passed away in November."
"What did she tell you before she died?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs. "About where you came from? About this locket?"
Emily stared at the silver trinket, a tear rolling down her cheek and dripping onto the lapel of my jacket.
"She was in a lot of pain at the end," Emily murmured, her voice small and frail. "She was delirious from the morphine. But two nights before she passed, she grabbed my wrist—right where the birthmark is—and she started crying so hard she could barely breathe. She pulled this locket out from under her mattress."
"What did she say?"
"She said... 'I took you because I had to save you. If I left you there, she would have killed you too.'"
Arthur dropped his pen onto the desk with a sharp clatter.
"Did she name anyone?" I pressed, leaning closer, my knuckles turning white against my trousers. "Did Mary say who 'she' was?"
Emily shook her head slowly. "She kept saying 'the sister.' Over and over. 'The sister wanted the empire. She locked the nursery fire door from the outside.' I thought she was talking out of her mind from the fever. I thought she was remembering some terrible thing from her past. She told me to never sell the locket, to never open it in front of strangers, and to stay away from Nashville."
"Then why did you come here?" Arthur asked from across the room. "Why apply for a domestic position in this house?"
Emily looked down at her lap, shame flushing her cheeks. "Because we were four thousand dollars in debt for her funeral expenses. The agency in Chattanooga placed me with a domestic staffing firm in Brentwood. When they assigned me to the Carter estate, I didn't think anything of the name. Carter is common. I needed the twelve hundred dollars a week to pay off the medical collectors. I was just trying to survive."
Before I could speak, the library doors flew open.
Dr. Marcus Reed entered, carrying a black medical pelican case, flanked by two armed sheriff’s deputies. Marcus had been my personal physician and the head of genetic pathology at Vanderbilt for over a decade. His face was grim, devoid of the usual professional warmth he carried during my annual physicals.
"James," Marcus said, setting the case on the coffee table. "Arthur briefed me on the drive over. I have two certified rapid-PCR thermal cyclers in the mobile unit downstairs, and I brought three separate chain-of-custody kits."
"Do it now," I said, rolling up my right sleeve without hesitation.
Marcus swabbed the inside of my cheek with a sterile cotton applicator, sealed it inside a barcoded plastic vial, and then turned toward Emily. He looked at her with gentle, clinical eyes.
"Miss Higgins," Marcus said softly. "May I?"
Emily looked at me, seeking permission. I nodded slowly, offering her the most reassuring smile my shattered nerves could muster.
"It won't hurt, Emily. It's just a swab."
She opened her mouth, and Marcus gently collected the epithelial cells, sealing her sample into a matching green-topped vial.
"How long?" I demanded.
"The rapid equipment can map sixteen core STR markers in roughly forty-five minutes," Marcus replied, packing the vials into the thermal transport case. "It's not the four-day legal standard for court admissibility, but it will give you a ninety-nine point nine percent probability of biological paternity before the clock strikes midnight."
"Run it," I said. "And Arthur—where is Sarah?"
Arthur’s phone buzzed on the desk. He looked at the screen, and his jaw tightened into a hard, dangerous line.
"Private security just flagged her vehicle," Arthur said, his eyes darkening. "She left the house through the basement wine cellar entrance, took the back service lane in her Range Rover, and blew through the perimeter gate before the deputies could close it. She’s heading toward downtown."
"Track her," I snarled, rising from my chair with an intensity that made the deputies shift their grip on their holsters. "Put an asset freeze on every credit card, every personal account, and every corporate line of credit tied to her name. If she tries to access a private jet at Nashville International, I want Homeland Security notified."
"On it," Arthur said, already dialing the district attorney’s private residence.
I turned back to Emily. She was staring at me, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and absolute terror.
"Mr. Carter," she whispered, her voice trembling. "If what you’re saying is true... if that woman in the picture was my mother... who are you?"
May you like
I looked at the daughter I had mourned for six thousand five hundred and seventy-four days. The daughter whose empty grave I visited every Christmas morning with a bouquet of white lilies.
"I’m your father, Grace," I choked out, tears finally spilling over my eyelids. "And I have spent eighteen years looking for you in the dark."
