Chapter 3 - The Unopened Door
Brendan stared down into the crib for five long seconds. The silence in the room became so heavy that the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway sounded like hammer strikes against steel.
"What is this?" he asked. His voice was lower now, stripped of its arrogant rhythm, though he still clung desperately to irritation. "Nora, what kind of sick joke is this?"
I stepped out from the shadow of the curtains. The streetlights outside cast long, gray bars through the blinds, painting us both in prison stripes.
"You told Ximena to hold the release form," I said, my voice steady, rhythmic, devoid of any tremble. "You told her that my emergency requests were an attempt to control your personal capital."
"I asked you what this is!" Brendan shouted, his hand hovering over the cold ceramic surface of the urn without touching it. His fingers trembled slightly, though his face remained stubborn. "Where is my daughter?"
"She waited for you for six days," I replied, watching his eyes dart across the empty crib. "On the fourth day, her lungs started filling with fluid because the secondary antibiotics weren't covered under your modified family policy. On the fifth day, she kept asking why Daddy was on the television screen instead of coming to hold her hand."
Brendan's throat bobbed. A bead of sweat formed at his hairline. "I was in Tokyo... the merger was at a critical stage..."
"You weren't in Tokyo, Brendan. You were in Miami. Samantha posted a photo of your watch on her private Instagram story three nights ago from a yacht in Biscayne Bay."
Brendan froze. The excuse died in his throat.
"Chloe coded at dawn on the seventh day," I continued, each word measured and clear. "The attending physician spent forty-five minutes doing compressions on a three-year-old chest. Do you know what three-year-old ribs sound like when they break under adult hands, Brendan?"
He recoiled as if I had struck him across the mouth. He took a staggering step backward, his back hitting Chloe's bookshelf, knocking a framed photo of her first birthday to the floor. The glass shattered.
"No," he muttered, shaking his head furiously. "No, you're lying. You're doing this to punish me. You had someone take her to another facility. You're trying to manipulate me into giving you full power of attorney over the estate."
"Look at the certificate inside the envelope beneath the lid," I said softly.
With shaking fingers, Brendan reached down into the crib. His hand brushed against the cool marble base of the urn, and a visible shudder passed through his entire frame. Beside the base lay a folded slip of heavy cream paper bearing the official seal of the metropolitan coroner’s office.
He unfolded it with jerky, spastic movements.
His eyes scanned the lines. *Chloe Fairchild. Age: 3 years, 2 months. Cause of death: Septic shock secondary to untreated pulmonary necrosis.*
Below that was the date and time of death. Seventy-two hours ago.
At the bottom of the page was the signature of the administrator who had authorized the release of the body to the crematorium because the primary account holder—Brendan Fairchild—had failed to respond to twelve urgent medical dispatches.
"No..." Brendan dropped the paper. His knees buckled slightly, but he caught himself against the wall. His face had completely drained of color, turning a sickly, translucent gray. "No, no, no... Ximena told me it was just an infection... she said the doctors were exaggerating the costs to pad the bill..."
"Ximena doesn't have a medical degree," I said, stepping closer until I was standing inches from him. I looked directly into his wide, panicked eyes. "Ximena has a gambling debt in Macau, and you gave her signature authority over our family medical trust so Samantha could divert eighty thousand dollars into her dummy consulting firm."
"I didn't know!" Brendan suddenly roared, grabbing his own hair, tears of panic finally breaking through his shock. "I didn't know she was that sick! You should have called me directly!"
"I called you forty-seven times," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper that cut deeper than any scream. "And when you finally answered three hours ago, you told me to stop bothering you because you were busy buying Samantha dinner."
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Before he could speak, the bedroom door swung open violently.
Ximena stood in the doorway, wearing an emerald silk robe, holding a wine glass. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face twisted in frantic anxiety. "Brendan! You need to check your tablet right now. The main investment accounts... they're locked. Every single credit line tied to the holding group was revoked ten minutes ago!"
