Chapter 6 - THE GHOST IN THE WARD
“Havenwood,” I repeated, the name tasting like ash in my mouth.
I knew Havenwood. It was a secluded, high-end palliative care facility owned by a subsidiary of our company, nestled deep in the woods of upstate New York. I had signed off on its funding a decade ago, believing it was a charitable venture.
Answer one, open two. Havenwood wasn't a charity. It was a black-site disposal facility for anyone who asked too many questions about Charles’s smuggling ring.
“You’re a monster,” I hissed at the nurse.
She shrugged, unfazed. “I’m well paid. You’re too late, Evelyn. By the time you drive two hours upstate, your husband will have passed peacefully in his sleep from a morphine overdose.”
She reached for the emergency call button on the wall to summon security.
I didn't think. I reacted.
I grabbed the heavy metal IV pole next to the bed and swung the heavy base directly into her knees. She shrieked, collapsing to the floor. Before she could recover, I pulled the telephone cord from the wall and quickly tied her hands to the radiator.
“Let’s go, Ben,” I said, my voice ice-cold.
We stole a doctor’s Audi from the executive parking garage. I didn't care about the cameras. I drove like a madwoman, tearing through the rain-slicked highways heading north.
“Is Daddy going to die?” Ben asked quietly from the passenger seat, his eyes fixed on the dark road.
“Not tonight,” I swore, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. “Not ever again.”
It took an hour and forty minutes to reach Havenwood. The facility was a sprawling, gothic stone building surrounded by dense pine trees. There were no ambulances, no bright signs. Just high iron fences and a single guard gate.
I didn't stop. I gunned the engine and smashed the Audi straight through the wooden barrier arm of the gate, the windshield cracking from the impact.
I skidded to a halt at the front entrance. We bailed out of the smoking car and ran through the heavy glass doors.
The lobby was deserted. The night staff had fled when they heard the crash.
We sprinted down the dimly lit corridors, checking the patient registries on the wall.
“Room 104,” Ben pointed. “It has his name on the doorplate!”
We rushed to the heavy oak door. It was locked.
I grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall and smashed the heavy metal cylinder against the electronic lock until it sparked and gave way.
I kicked the door open.
The room was bathed in the eerie green glow of a heart monitor.
And there he was.
Daniel.
He looked older, his hair peppered with gray, his face thin and pale from whatever poison Charles’s doctors had been pumping into him. But it was him. The strong jaw, the gentle hands, the man I had loved since I was twenty-eight.
He was awake, staring at the ceiling, his breathing shallow.
“Daniel,” I sobbed, the name tearing from my throat.
He slowly turned his head. His eyes widened in absolute disbelief.
“Evie?” he whispered, his voice raspy and weak. Tears immediately spilled over his hollow cheeks. “My beautiful Evie.”
I ran to the bed and threw my arms around him, burying my face in his chest. He felt frail, but he was warm. He was alive.
Ben scrambled onto the bed from the other side, hugging his father’s waist.
“Daddy, we found the deed!” Ben cried. “We’re going to save you!”
Daniel weakly wrapped one arm around Ben, but his other hand desperately grabbed my shoulder, pushing me back. The joy in his eyes was instantly replaced by terror.
“Evie, you shouldn't have come,” Daniel gasped, struggling to sit up. “You shouldn't have brought the boy here.”
“We’re taking you home, Daniel,” I cried, kissing his face.
“Look at the monitor, Evie,” Daniel pleaded, his eyes darting to the machine beside the bed.
I looked at the heart monitor. It was beeping steadily, tracking his pulse. But the wires didn't just lead to the sticky pads on his chest.
A secondary wire ran from the back of the monitor, trailing along the baseboard, disappearing under the heavy oak door we had just kicked open.
Reversal.
Daniel hadn't been sent here to overdose. He was the bait.
“It’s wired to a localized C4 charge on the doorframe,” a voice said from the hallway.
May you like
Charles stepped into the doorway, holding a remote detonator in his hand. He looked disheveled, bleeding slightly from a graze wound on his shoulder, but his eyes were victorious.
With a chilling smile, Charles pulled the heavy oak door shut, locking us inside the room with the bomb.
