Chapter 5 - The Trap Closes on Nathan
The drive upstate through the freezing Adirondack foothills took nearly four hours. Nathan sat in the back of Marcus’s SUV between two armed security operatives Marcus had hired from an elite private firm, staring blankly out the frosted window.
Oakridge Sanatorium loomed out of the dark pine forest like a fortress from a gothic novel—high stone walls, wrought-iron gates topped with barbed wire, and a single concrete-and-glass administration building glowing with harsh fluorescent light.
Nathan’s corporate ID badge scanned smoothly at the secondary security gate, the automated system recognizing his biometric override as a visiting board member inspecting a subsidiary asset.
The heavy iron gates hissed open.
We drove up the winding, snow-dusted drive and parked in the shadows behind the main medical wing.
"The secure memory care ward is in the basement level," Nathan whispered, his voice shaking as he handed his master keycard to Marcus. "Patients who aren't supposed to exist are kept in the isolated wing behind the pharmacy archives. You... you won't find a regular chart for them. They’re listed under numerical codes."
"Stay in the car, Nathan," I said, pulling my heavy wool coat tighter around me. "If you try to run, the federal indictments go out before we even reach the doors."
Marcus and I slipped through the side service entrance while the night guard was distracted by a digital glitch Marcus’s hacker had triggered on the main gate sensors.
The interior of the facility smelled of industrial bleach, old paper, and despair. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long, jittery shadows down the linoleum corridors. We descended two flights of concrete stairs into the subterranean wing.
The air grew colder here. The doors were heavy steel with small, reinforced glass viewports.
We checked the numerical plaques beside each door. 401... 402... 403...
At door 412, the plaque listed a patient number instead of a name: ST-998.
I peered through the reinforced glass.
Inside the small, sterile room, a man sat at a small wooden desk under a single harsh desk lamp. His hair was completely white, his shoulders stooped, but even in the dim light, the sharp, aristocratic line of his jaw and the distinctive scar across his left knuckles were unmistakable.
Thomas Sterling. My father.
My breath hitched in my throat. I reached for the electronic keypad beside the door, but Marcus grabbed my wrist.
"Wait," Marcus whispered, his eyes fixed on the security camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling. "The feed is live. If we force the lock without the administrative override code, Thorne’s private security will be down here in sixty seconds."
I pulled Nathan’s master keycard from my pocket and pressed it against the digital scanner.
Access Denied.
"Damn it," I muttered. "Thorne must have revoked his secondary clearance level."
Suddenly, the heavy metal door clicked from the inside.
The lock mechanism buzzed, and the door swung open a few inches.
May you like
My father stood in the doorway, wearing a simple gray cotton tunic, looking older and thinner than I remembered, but his dark eyes—the exact same shade as mine—were burning with an intense, razor-sharp intelligence.
"Emma?" my father’s voice was raspy, unused to speaking above a whisper for years, but steady. "I knew... I knew someone would eventually find the loose thread."
