Chapter 6 - Shadows at the Hospital
The pediatric ICU at St. Luke’s Regional Medical Center was locked down under heavy armed guard.
Grant Mercer had commandeered the entire third floor. Four of his private security operatives stood at every entrance, checking credentials and turning away anyone without direct clearance.
Behind the glass partition of room 302, Grace lay inside a temperature-controlled incubator, a tiny nasal cannula delivering oxygen to her struggling lungs, while Eli rested in an adjoining crib under close observation for dehydration. Across the room, Claire lay in a hospital bed, hooked to an IV line of strong antibiotics and fluids, her torn incision re-stitched and bandaged.
Dr. Evans stepped out of the room, peeling off his surgical gloves. He found Grant standing against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his knuckles raw and bruised from where he had punched a concrete pillar in the waiting area.
“How are they?” Grant asked, his voice dead and trembling.
“Grace had severe RSV complicated by early-stage pneumonia and cold exposure,” Dr. Evans said gravely. “If you had arrived twenty minutes later, Grant... her little lungs would have given out completely. But we caught it. The oxygen therapy is working, the antibiotics are circulating, and her fever broke an hour ago. Eli is doing much better; he took a full four ounces of formula twenty minutes ago.”
Grant let out a long, ragged exhale, sinking his head against the cold hospital wall. He felt like his soul had been pulled out through his throat and shoved back in. “And Claire?”
“She is severely dehydrated, malnourished, and her surgical wound was on the verge of a systemic septic infection,” Dr. Evans replied sternly, looking Grant dead in the eye. “She nearly killed herself carrying those children through the wilderness, Grant. What on earth drove her to run like that three weeks after a major operation?”
Grant couldn't meet his friend’s gaze. “I did,” he whispered. “My stupidity. My arrogance.”
“Well, she is awake now,” Dr. Evans said softly. “She’s asking for you.”
Grant froze. For a man who had faced down mafia hitmen without blinking, the thought of walking into that room and looking his wife in the eye terrified him to his core.
He slowly pushed open the heavy wooden door.
The room was quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitors. Claire was awake, propped up against several white pillows. She looked frail, her cheekbones prominent, her eyes shadowed with dark violet circles. But when she turned her head and saw him enter, her gaze was not filled with rage. It was filled with a cold, devastating sadness that cut Grant deeper than any blade.
“They told me Grace is going to be okay,” she said, her voice flat and raspy.
“She is,” Grant said, stopping three paces from the bed, feeling unworthy of taking another step forward. “She’s breathing on her own. They’re both going to make a full recovery.”
Claire looked at the ceiling. A single tear rolled down her temple into her hair. “Then you can take them back to Chicago. Take them to the mansion. Put them in their designer cribs. Hire a dozen nannies to raise them while you spend your nights with Vanessa.”
“Claire, stop,” Grant begged, his voice breaking completely. “Please don't say that.”
“Why not?” she whispered, turning her bruised eyes back to him. “Isn't that what you wanted? A trophy family to show off at galas, and another woman in hotel rooms to stroke your fragile ego? You broke every vow you ever made to me, Grant. You turned our marriage into a cheap lie.”
Before Grant could speak, the hallway outside erupted into sudden, angry commotion.
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“You can’t keep me out of here! Do you know who I am? Let me through to see Grant!”
Grant’s head snapped toward the door. Vanessa Reed’s high-pitched, demanding voice was echoing down the corridor. She had tracked his private helicopter flight directly to the regional hospital.
