Chapter 5 - The Shadow in the Hallway
Back in the ICU, the night had grown deep and silent.
The continuous hum of the vacuum pump on my leg was the only sound keeping me company. My fever had finally dropped to 99.2 degrees, but my mind was spinning with a terrifying restlessness.
At 2:15 AM, the door to my room creaked open slightly.
I whipped my head around, expecting to see Dr. Mensah or the night nurse checking my IV lines.
Instead, the doorway was empty. But through the narrow gap, I noticed something strange.
The two uniformed police officers who had been posted outside my room were nowhere to be seen. The hallway outside was dimly lit, silent, and completely deserted.
"Nurse?" I called out, my voice raspy and thin.
No answer.
A sudden, suffocating wave of instinct washed over me. I reached for the nurse call button hanging on the bedframe, pressing it hard.
Nothing happened. The digital display on the wall monitor flickered twice and died. The power outlet powering my IV tree clicked off, putting the pumps onto battery backup mode.
Someone had cut the localized power to my room's telemetry unit.
Panicked, I pulled back the heavy hospital blanket and swung my good left leg over the edge of the bed. Pain flared through my bandaged right leg as the heavy vacuum pump pulled against the surgical tubing, but I ignored it. I grabbed the metal IV pole for support and dragged myself toward the door.
I reached the doorway and peeked around the frame.
Down at the end of the long ICU corridor, near the emergency exit stairs, the two police officers were lying slumped against the wall. One was unconscious on the floor; the other was groaning softly, clutching the back of his head.
And standing in the center of the dark hallway, holding a heavy glass bottle of industrial floor disinfectant and a roll of heavy duct tape, was Tristan.
He wasn't wearing his suit anymore. He wore dark jeans, a black hoodie pulled low over his forehead, and leather gloves.
When his eyes met mine through the dim corridor light, he didn't run. He didn't flinch.
He smiled.
"You really should have stayed in bed, Reese," Tristan said, his voice echoing softly against the linoleum walls as he began walking slowly toward me. "Look at the mess you’ve made."
"Tristan... stay away from me!" I screamed, turning to drag myself back into the room.
I slammed the door and threw my weight against it, but there was no deadbolt on the ICU room door—only a simple latch.
Before I could drag a heavy equipment cart behind the door, Tristan shoved his shoulder against the wood. The door flew inward, striking my shoulder and sending me crashing hard onto the slick floor. The vacuum tubing torn free from my leg, and hot, agonizing pain exploded through my raw incision.
Tristan stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. He looked down at me as I crawled backward across the floor, dragging my bleeding leg behind me.
"Do you have any idea how much work it took to set up that margin trade?" Tristan whispered, uncapping the bottle in his hand. The sharp, toxic stench of concentrated bleach and ammonia filled the room. "Two million dollars, Reese. That was all I needed to clean the books. And you had to run out the window."
"They know, Tristan!" I sobbed, backing into the corner between the sink and the bed. "The police have the jar! They have the path lab report! You're never going to get away with this!"
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"The path lab report hasn't been signed into evidence yet, sweetheart," Tristan replied, pulling a heavy syringe from his hoodie pocket. "And when the night shift finds you, they’re going to find a tragic case of sudden septic embolism complicated by accidental chemical inhalation from a spilled cleaning bucket."
He lunged forward, grabbing my hair and yanking my head back to expose my neck.
