Chapter 6 - Daylight at St. Jude’s
The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and fresh lilies. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting warm geometric patterns across my elevated left leg, which was now encased in a heavy white cast from knee to ankle.
The surgery had taken four hours. The orthopedic surgeon had inserted two titanium pins to set the compound fracture caused by the shovel's impact. Every heartbeat still sent a dull, throbbing ache through the limb, but my mind was clearer than it had been in years.
Genevieve was asleep on the vinyl armchair beside my bed, wrapped in a warm fleece blanket provided by the nursing staff. In her lap was Barnaby the bunny, and standing beside the window, looking immaculate in a tailored charcoal suit, was Isold Mercer.
"You took an enormous, reckless risk," Isold said without turning around, though her voice carried an undercurrent of profound relief. "If that shovel had hit your head instead of your leg..."
"He was trying to take everything, Isold," I said quietly, wincing as I shifted against the pillows. "If I hadn't taken that ledger, he would have dragged this through probate and civil courts for the next decade. He would have bled Genevieve's college fund dry just fighting the legal fees."
Isold turned, adjusting her tortoiseshell glasses. "Well, you don't have to worry about civil court anymore. Detective Miller delivered copies of the ledger and the altered documents to the District Attorney's office at dawn. They brought in the forensic accountants from the state financial crimes division."
"What did they find?"
Isold pulled a legal pad from her satchel. "Your father wasn't just broke. He has been operating an active affinity fraud scheme for the last seven years. He took money from elderly members of the Pinecrest Country Club under the guise of an 'exclusive private wealth fund,' used the money to pay for his club dues and luxury cars, and used forged collateral documents to secure loans against properties he didn't own."
She looked at me, her expression grim. "The $525,000 in Genevieve's trust was supposed to pay off an overdue balloon payment to an organized private lender in Atlantic City. A lender who gave him until this Friday to produce the cash."
I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. "He wasn't just stealing from his granddaughter. He was trying to save his own skin from criminals."
The door to the private room swung open, and Detective Marcus Miller walked in. He was holding two large take-out coffees and a manila file folder. His trench coat was damp, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, but a grim, satisfied smirk played on his lips.
"Good morning," Miller said, nodding respectfully to Isold and setting a coffee on my rolling tray. "How's the leg?"
"Holding together with titanium," I managed a weak smile. "Did you find them?"
Miller pulled up a stool. "We raided the estate at 1:30 AM. Harold and Evelyn weren't there. They dumped their cell phones in a trash can behind a gas station on Route 9, withdrew $15,000 from an emergency ATM reserve, and vanished before our perimeter was set."
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My heart plummeted into my stomach. "They're gone? Miller, they know Genevieve and I are here! If Harold is desperate enough—"
"Breathe," Miller interrupted gently, placing a steadying hand on the edge of the bed frame. "There are two armed plainclothes officers stationed outside this door, and another two in the hospital lobby. Harold Vance isn't coming here. He knows the feds are involved now. But he does have one final move he's trying to make, and we just intercepted the wire."
