Chapter 2: Missing Pages and Midnight Logs
The digital clock on the central nurses' station read 3:14 AM when I finally managed to slip away from Cole’s room. The hospital was unnaturally quiet, save for the hum of the vending machines down the hall and the distant ping of an elevator reaching the ground floor. My fingers flew across the keyboard of the terminal, pulling up Cole Montgomery’s electronic health record. The screen flickered, refreshing with a sharp blue light that illuminated my tired eyes.
"Looking for something, Clara?"
I jumped, nearly dropping my pen as Night Administrator Harris stepped out from behind the partition, holding a Styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee. His tie was loosened, and deep purple crescents bruised the skin beneath his eyes.
"Just verifying the post-op medication schedule for Room 412," I said, keeping my voice carefully neutral as I minimized the active window. "Dr. Sterling made some verbal adjustments earlier tonight."
Harris took a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze lingering on my face. "Dr. Sterling is the head of surgical research. If he made an adjustment, it's canonical. You shouldn't be second-guessing attending physicians at three in the morning."
"I verify every dosage for my patients, Mr. Harris. It's my license on the line," I replied, holding his gaze.
Harris stared at me for a long, uncomfortable beat before turning away toward the breakroom. "Just stick to the charts in the binder. The system’s been acting up with server syncs all evening anyway."
As soon as he rounded the corner, I pulled the terminal back up. I bypassed the standard patient portal and accessed the internal pharmacy request logs—a secure directory few floor nurses knew how to navigate. I typed in Cole’s admission ID. The screen processed the request for three agonizing seconds before flashing a red warning box: RECORD MODIFIED.
My breath hitched. I clicked into the revision history. At 11:45 PM—just twenty minutes after Sterling left Cole’s room—an administrative override had been executed from the main administrative terminal on the seventh floor. The entry for the unlabelled glass vial had been completely wiped from the digital registry, replaced with a routine saline flush. Someone inside the hospital administration was actively scrubbing the evidence to protect Sterling.
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I reached for my phone, scrolling down to the memo app, and quickly typed out the exact time stamp and user ID associated with the deletion. Before I could screenshot the log, the terminal screen abruptly went black, flashing a corporate blue error code: SYSTEM MAINTENANCE IN PROGRESS.
My access had been remotely revoked. I slammed my hand against the desk in frustration, the sharp plastic edge biting into my palm. I wasn't just dealing with a rogue doctor; I was up against an entire institutional cover-up, and Cole Montgomery was sitting right in the middle of it.
