Chapter 4 - The Shadow in the Corridor
I spun around in the swivel chair, my hand dropping instinctively to the edge of the metal desk.
Standing in the doorway was a man wearing a crisp gray security uniform, his hand resting casually on the heavy black holster at his hip. He wasn't panicking. He didn't look surprised to see two intruders illuminated by the glow of a restricted medical terminal.
In fact, he looked like a man who had been expecting visitors for a very long time.
“Mr. Vale,” the security guard said, his voice flat, devoid of any professional deference. He didn't even look at me; his eyes were fixed entirely on Jordan. “Your mother called ten minutes ago. She said you’d try to pull an administrative override using her legacy credentials. She didn't mention you’d bring company auditors with you, though.”
Jordan stepped smoothly in front of me, placing himself between the guard and the desk.
“Step aside, Miller,” Jordan said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register I had never heard him use before. “You know who I am, and you know what happens to anyone assisting an illegal confinement cover-up once federal prosecutors get their hands on this facility's visitor logs.”
Miller didn't flinch. A slow, thin smile crept across his weathered face.
“Federal prosecutors don't have jurisdiction here, Mr. Vale. Pine Ridge operates under private psychiatric quarantine protocols established thirty years ago under an emergency judicial seal signed by Richard Blackwood himself.”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
My father.
Richard Blackwood hadn't just been a victim of a cruel disappearance. He had signed the seal.
“That’s a lie,” I said, stepping past Jordan, my voice trembling with a fury so hot it burned my throat. “My father was told she died in a car accident. He spent thirty years believing she was gone.”
Miller finally looked at me, his gaze scanning my face with an unsettling, clinical curiosity.
“You have her eyes, you know,” Miller said softly, ignoring my accusation entirely. “Same stubborn chin. Same reckless habit of digging into things that are better left buried in the dark. You really think Richard didn’t know where she was? Mr. Blackwood is a powerful man, Miss Cruz—or should I say, Miss Blackwood? Powerful men don't lose things unless they decide the cost of keeping them is too high.”
He reached slowly toward his belt.
My pulse surged. I didn't hesitate.
Before Miller could clear his holster, I swept my foot across the metal base of the rolling chair behind me, sending it crashing directly into his knees. He grunted, stumbling forward against the doorframe, his hand slipping off the weapon.
Jordan moved with lightning speed, lunging forward and pinning the guard’s arm against the wall while wrestling the heavy radio and security keys from his belt.
“The keys,” Jordan gritted out, pressing Miller’s shoulder against the cold steel of the door. “Which room?”
Miller chuckled, a ragged, wet sound, even with his face pressed against the wall.
“Room 312,” the guard wheezed, blood vessels bulging in his neck. “End of the hall. But you’re too late, kids. The transfer vehicle is already on the tarmac. Your mother cleared the order an hour ago.”
Jordan didn't wait. He stripped the master keycard from Miller’s belt, shoved the guard hard against the wall until his knees buckled, and grabbed my hand.
“Run,” he said.
We sprinted down the linoleum corridor, our footsteps echoing off the sterile white walls. The emergency lights cast long, distorted shadows ahead of us as we checked the door numbers: 304, 308, 310...
The door was unlocked.
I pushed it open, the heavy wood swinging inward with a soft creak.
The room was small, cold, and smelled of antiseptic and old paper. A single narrow bed sat against the far wall beneath a high, barred window looking out over the dark pine forest.
Sitting upright on the edge of the mattress, clutching a worn, frayed woolen blanket tightly around her shoulders, was a woman.
She turned her head slowly as the door opened.
Her hair was silver, her face lined with decades of isolation and sorrow, but the moment her dark, piercing eyes locked onto mine, the breath left my lungs completely.
It wasn't a ghost.
It was my mother.
And clutched tightly in her trembling hand, resting against her chest like a sacred relic, was something that made my knees nearly buckle.
May you like
A silver pocket watch engraved with my father's initials—the very watch Richard Blackwood claimed he had lost the night Isabella Cruz vanished thirty years ago.
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