Chapter 8 - THE ROSARY’S PROMISE
Marcus raised the heavy iron wrench, his eyes wide with a manic, singular obsession. The rain poured down his face, washing away the soot, revealing the raw, unhinged hatred beneath.
Arthur was exhausted, his lungs burning, his muscles failing. He braced for the impact, stepping sideways to keep his body between Marcus and the boy.
But the blow never came.
Red and blue lights suddenly exploded through the driving rain, illuminating the dark trees of the estate. The screech of tires tore through the storm as three police cruisers tore onto the grass, flanking the burning house.
"Drop the weapon! Now!" a voice boomed through a megaphone.
Marcus froze. He looked at the police, then down at the wrench in his hand. For a moment, Arthur thought the man would swing anyway, choosing murder over surrender. But the fight drained out of Marcus all at once. The realization that his twenty-year revenge plot had crumbled into ashes finally broke him.
He dropped the wrench. It hit the mud with a dull thud. Police officers swarmed him, slamming him against the hood of a cruiser and snapping handcuffs onto his wrists.
A paramedic rushed toward Arthur and Leo, tossing them thick thermal blankets.
"My wife," Arthur coughed, pointing a trembling hand toward the burning house. "She’s inside. The second floor."
As the fire trucks pulled in, dousing the flames with high-pressure hoses, Arthur didn't wait. He grabbed a police officer by the vest. "I need a ride to the hospital. Right now. My daughter is dying."
The drive back to the hospital felt entirely detached from reality. Arthur sat in the back of the cruiser, his hands clutching a small, worn wooden rosary he had found in the pocket of the wet coat Leo had been wearing—it was Maria's, the housekeeper's. He rubbed his thumb over the wooden beads, a desperate, silent prayer repeating in his mind.
Let me be a father. Don't take her. Let me fix this.
When they burst through the emergency room doors, the hospital was eerily quiet. The chaotic energy from an hour ago was gone.
Arthur sprinted down the hallway toward the ICU, Leo running right beside him, his small sneakers squeaking on the linoleum floor.
Dr. Evans was standing outside Lily’s room. His shoulders were slumped, his chart hanging loosely in his hand.
Arthur felt the floor drop out from beneath him. "No," he whispered. "No, you gave her the antidote. We told you what it was."
Dr. Evans looked up, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. "We administered the Digibind immediately, Arthur. But her heart had already sustained massive stress. She coded ten minutes ago."
Arthur couldn't breathe. The hallway spun. The cold rain, the fire, the betrayal—it all meant nothing. He had failed her.
"We performed CPR for eight minutes," Dr. Evans continued, stepping aside to reveal the glass window into the room.
Arthur looked through the glass.
The breathing tube was out. The harsh, frantic alarms were silenced. Instead, a steady, rhythmic beep echoed from the monitor.
"Her heart restarted," Dr. Evans said, a faint smile breaking through his exhaustion. "The antidote caught up. She’s breathing on her own, Arthur. She’s awake."
Arthur shoved the door open.
Lily lay on the bed, looking tiny against the crisp white sheets. She was pale, her blonde hair messy, but her eyes were open. When she saw Arthur, a tiny, weak smile touched her lips.
May you like
"Daddy," she rasped, her voice barely a whisper.
Arthur fell to his knees beside the bed, burying his face in the blankets, entirely breaking down. The mighty, untouchable businessman wept like a child, his large shoulders shaking with profound, paralyzing relief.
