The Saint Claire Ledger

The rain was starting to fall over Seattle again, turning the slate-gray pavement of the hospital entrance into a mirror reflecting the neon streetlights.

Outside the perimeter gates, past the security booth and the newly installed biometric turnstiles, a figure stood beneath a black umbrella.

Preston Whitmore.

He didn't have a car anymore. His BMW had been repossessed by the bank three days after the asset freeze. His credit cards were declined at every coffee shop downtown. His friends—the golf buddies, the country club socialites, the venture capitalists who had slapped him on the back at charity galas—had mysteriously stopped returning his calls.

He stared up through the rain at the massive stone archway above the main entrance.

Whitmore–Saint Claire Medical Center.

For three years, he had treated those letters like a family crest he was entitled to wear without earning it. He had walked through those doors believing he was untouchable, invincible, born to inherit an empire simply because of his last name.

Now, his name was being chiseled off the executive directory plaque in the lobby.

A black town car slid silently past him along the wet curb, its windows tinted dark. Preston took an involuntary step back, his hand trembling as he clutched the collar of his damp trench coat.

He knew who was in that car.

Inside the vehicle, sitting comfortably in the plush leather backseat, Emily watched the pathetic figure standing in the rain through the smoked glass.

She didn't feel anger. She didn't feel triumph. She felt something much more permanent: absolute indifference.