Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the ArchiveBy morning, Detective Mason was back. He didn't use the door; he slipped in through the window balcony access like a shadow, checking the corridor before pulling a chair close to my bed.
"Ethan visited," I stated flatly before he could speak.
Mason raised an eyebrow. "Did he threaten you?"
"He promised me a private facility and another 'complication' if I don't drop this," I replied, my hands curling into useless fists inside the plaster. "Mason, you can't let him transfer me. If he gets me out of this hospital, I'm dead. Emily was proof of that."
"I know," Mason murmured, pulling a small, battered USB drive from his pocket and placing it on my tray table. "We dug into Emily’s file last night. Turns out, the original investigating officer on her case took early retirement six months after her death and bought a luxury condo in Boca Raton on a patrolman's salary. We're looking into his bank accounts as we speak."
"What about the house?" I asked. "The balcony?"
"Forensics went through it at dawn," Mason said, leaning forward. "They found microscopic traces of fabric fibers on the railing matching Ethan’s cashmere sweater from the night of your fall. But fiber isn't enough for a conviction, especially with the high-priced defense team his family retains. We need a smoking gun. We need to find where Ethan hid Emily's personal effects."
"Check his office," I said suddenly, a memory flashing through my mind. "At the house. In his study behind the wet bar. There’s a hidden wall safe behind a panel of oak shelving. He told me it was just for tax documents and emergency cash."
Mason’s eyes lit up. "A safe? Did you ever see the combination?"
"I heard him punching it in once," I said, closing my eyes to visualize the rhythm. Three turns right, two left, stop on the number. "Three, seven, twenty-one, four. It's his birthday combined with the day his company went public."
Mason stood up immediately, sliding the USB drive into his pocket and patting my shoulder. "Hang in there, Claire. I'm going to get a warrant signed by a judge who owes me a favor. If Emily's journals or jewelry are in that safe, Ethan’s empire comes crumbling down today."
"Be careful, Mason," I warned. "Ethan isn't just a businessman. He has connections. People who make problems disappear."
"Let them try," the detective muttered with a grim smile, slipping back out into the hallway.
The hours dragged by like centuries. The hospital room felt smaller, the air thinner. Around noon, two men in generic security uniforms walked in, wheeling a transport gurney.
"Mrs. Morgan?" the taller one asked, his face half-hidden behind a surgical mask. "Orders from Mr. Morgan. Immediate transfer to the San Mateo private rehabilitation center."
My blood ran cold. "I didn't authorize a transfer. Where is my doctor? Where is Detective Mason?"
"Doctor's orders, ma'am," the second man said, stepping forward and grabbing the brakes of my hospital bed with practiced efficiency. "Let's make this easy."
May you like
"Get away from me!" I screamed, but my voice was muffled by the panic in the room. They didn't care. They locked my bed wheels, hoisted the entire apparatus toward the freight elevator, and ignored my desperate cries.
They weren't hospital orderlies. They were Ethan's clean-up crew.
