Chapter 7 - The Boardroom Ambush
Daniel turned in his chair so fast his elbow knocked over his water glass, sending cold liquid spilling across the signed legal filings. His mouth fell open, his eyes bulging as if he had just witnessed a corpse crawl out of an open grave.
I rolled into the boardroom in the wheelchair, pushed slowly and deliberately by Detective Miller in his plainclothes badge and jacket. Behind us walked Dr. Elena Brooks, holding the medical logbook containing my official vital signs and the true resuscitation certificate. I was pale, my hair was tied back, and a nasal cannula still rested against my face, but my eyes were locked directly onto Daniel’s trembling jaw.
“Claire?” Daniel choked out, his voice cracking into a high, pathetic squeak. He stumbled to his feet, knocking his leather chair backward against the wall. “Claire... you’re... they said you flatlined! I saw you! Your heart stopped!”
“It did stop, Daniel,” I said, resting my hands calmly on the armrests of the wheelchair. “For ninety-six seconds. Ninety-six seconds while you stood in the hallway with your mistress, watching through the glass to make sure I didn't take another breath.”
Vanessa didn't stand up. She froze, her painted fingernails digging so deeply into the edge of the conference table that one of the acrylic tips snapped with a sharp crack. Her eyes darted from me to Detective Miller, then toward the double exit doors behind my chair. Two uniformed officers stepped into the frame, blocking the doorway completely.
“This is absurd,” Vanessa spat, though her voice shook violently. “This is some kind of sick performance. Daniel, she’s mentally unstable from the trauma of the birth. She doesn't know what she’s saying.”
“I know every single thing I’m saying, Vanessa,” I replied, nodding to Detective Miller.
The detective stepped forward, placing a thick manila envelope and an iPad onto the center of the table. He tapped the screen, and the security footage from the maternity corridor began to play in high-definition color.
On the screen, Vanessa stood in her cream coat and red heels, leaning against the glass while the red emergency light flashed inside the delivery room. The camera caught her opening my leather handbag, pulling out my keycard, and holding my personal phone up to my limp hand on the gurney as orderlies rushed past. More damning still was the audio captured by the hallway intercom microphone: Vanessa whispering into Daniel’s ear, “Don't let them shock her again. Tell them she signed the DNR. If she dies now, the company is ours by sunrise.”
Daniel’s knees buckled. He collapsed back against the credenza, his face glistening with a sickening sheen of cold sweat. “Claire... please. She made me do it. Vanessa orchestrated the entire offshore account! She told me you were going to divorce me and leave me with nothing! I didn't want you to die, Claire! I panicked! I was in shock!”
“You weren't in shock when you signed the DNR waiver,” Dr. Brooks said, stepping forward with the clipboard. “You weren't in shock when you told the night nurse that your wife wanted all resuscitation stopped if the babies were delivered alive. You tried to murder her by proxy, Mr. Mercer.”
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Detective Miller drew a pair of steel handcuffs from his belt. The metallic click echoed like a gunshot in the silent room.
“Daniel Mercer, Vanessa Hale,” Detective Miller said, stepping toward them. “You are both under arrest for attempted second-degree murder, corporate grand larceny, and felony identity fraud.”
