Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary of Lies
“You’re out of your mind, Esteban!”
Arthur Sterling’s voice boomed through the private sacristy behind the altar, rattling the stained-glass windows depicting Saint Michael slaying the dragon. Arthur slammed his palm down on the mahogany table, his face flushed purple. “You have two hundred of the most influential people in Illinois sitting out there in the pews, the mayor is eating hors d'oeuvres in the courtyard, and you’re talking about chasing a ghost because some feral kid wandered in off the street with a doctored photo?!”
Esteban didn’t flinch. He stood by the arched window, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt, revealing the hard muscles of his forearms. He held the torn photograph between his thumb and forefinger.
“It’s not doctored, Arthur,” Esteban said quietly. His voice was too calm—the kind of calm that precedes a Category 5 hurricane. “The paper stock is 2018 Polaroid grain. The hospital gown behind her is from St. Agatha’s downtown—the charity ward your own development corporation bought out and gutted five years ago.”
Samantha stood in the corner of the room, her wedding gown bunched up in her hands, tears of fury streaming down her cheeks, ruining her imported mascara.
“You never loved me,” Samantha sobbed, her voice breaking with genuine, venomous anguish. “All these years... you wore that ring on your chain, you pretended to move on, but the second some dirty street brat waves a piece of trash at you, you drop everything? You humiliate me in front of my entire family?”
Esteban turned slowly to look at her. There was no anger in his eyes now—only a hollow, chilling emptiness.
“I told you when we got engaged, Sam, that a part of me died when Clara’s car went over that bridge,” Esteban said evenly. “You said you could live with a ghost. You lied. And worse... you knew.”
Samantha flinched, her breath hitching. “I—I don't know what you’re talking about!”
“Your father bought St. Agatha’s ward the exact week Clara’s car was found abandoned,” Esteban continued, walking toward her with slow, measured steps. “And your family’s private security firm handles the logistics grid for every abandoned municipal property in Cook County. You didn't just know she was missing, Samantha. You knew where she was locked.”
Before Samantha could answer, the heavy oak sacristy door swung open.
Tony, Esteban’s head of security and a former federal tactical operative, stepped inside, pulling off his earpiece.
“Boss,” Tony said, his face grim. “We ran facial recognition on the background of that torn photo. The serial number on the heart monitor matches the restricted ICU wing of the Sterling Medical Center in Oak Brook. Private wing. Level four basement security. Non-registered patients only.”
Arthur Sterling stepped back, his arrogance suddenly faltering as he realized the game was up.
May you like
Esteban didn't wait for another word. He pocketed the photograph, grabbed his car keys from the table, and walked past Arthur without even glancing at him.
“Lock the doors, Tony,” Esteban said over his shoulder as he strode out into the cathedral corridor. “We’re going to rescue my wife.”
