Chapter 4 - Shadows in the Corridor
I stepped back from the bedside just as the brass door handle turned. The young man in the sharp black suit walked in without waiting for a reply. He carried a fresh carafe of ice water and a tablet computer, his expression smooth and unreadable. He didn't look at me, focusing entirely on the figure in the bed.
"Your evening vitals are due in twenty minutes," the suited man said smoothly, placing the carafe on the table. He turned his cold gaze toward me. "Nurse, there’s a delivery downstairs for the secondary monitor array. The courier insisted on a signature from the medical staff on duty. Would you be so kind as to retrieve it?"
It was a dismissal, a polite way to clear the room so he could speak privately with the patient—or worse, adjust the equipment while my back was turned.
"I'll sign for it," I said, my voice even, though my pulse spiked against my ribs. "I'll be right back."
I walked out into the dimly lit hallway. The wooden paneling stretched into long, shadowed corridors lined with heavy oil paintings of ancestors who looked down with stern, disapproving eyes. Down the sweeping staircase, the foyer was quiet, illuminated only by the amber glow of wall sconces. There was no courier at the front door. Instead, resting on the mahogany console table, was a small cardboard shipping crate bearing the logo of Hawthorne Medical Logistics.
I didn't open the box downstairs. Instead, I lifted it under my arm, hurried down the service corridor toward the staff locker room, and pulled out a pocket utility blade. With a quick, practiced slice through the heavy packing tape, I opened the carton. Inside, nestled in molded styrofoam, were three replacement humidifier chambers for the oxygen system.
With shaking hands, I pried open the first chamber. Tucked inside the intake valve was a clear plastic insert, identical to the ones I had pulled from the tubes.
"Looking for something?"
I spun around, dropping the utility blade onto the linoleum floor. Standing in the doorway of the locker room was the estate's head of security, a broad-shouldered man in a dark blazer with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was completely devoid of emotion.
"The courier package," I said, recovering my composure with an effort that left my throat dry. "The seal was damaged. I was checking for transit contamination."
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The security guard took a slow step into the room, his heavy shoes clicking on the floor. He looked down at the open box, then up at my face. His eyes lingered on the zippered pocket of my scrubs where the first disc rested.
"Mr. Hawthorne doesn't like his shipments disturbed," the guard said, his voice low and flat. "Bring the box upstairs. Now."
