Chapter 7 - The Basement That Didn't Exist
Noah wanted to send a tactical team into St. Catherine's immediately. Ruth refused. A raid on a private hospital based on an old note and a pharmacy label would give Shaw's lawyers time to bury everything that mattered. Dad wanted to contact the prosecutor. I wanted the missing nurse found alive.
"I know how to get inside," I said.
Everyone looked at me.
Mom had helped paint that crane mural. Every spring, the hospital held a public memorial walk through the old administrative wing. I'd volunteered enough times to remember the service corridors. June still had her volunteer badge and a box of unused lanyards in her car.
"You're injured," Dad said.
"And I've spent four years letting people decide what's good for me. You can tell me the risks. You don't get to make the choice."
Noah watched me for a moment, then nodded. "We do this with a warrant and a safety team. You're a witness, not bait."
By noon, the hospital was running on polished smiles and the smell of disinfectant. Investigators entered through the loading dock with a judicial order. I walked beside Ruth, carrying the journal page in a plastic sleeve. B3 was marked STORAGE. Beyond it, a narrow stairwell descended to a metal door painted the same color as the wall.
The keypad accepted 04117. Inside, the air was cold and dry. A strip of the crane mural remained behind a row of server cabinets.
"Mom was here," I whispered.
A printer in the corner began spitting out paper, page after page. Names. Billing codes. Off-the-books payments. The system was destroying its digital records but printing exception reports for whoever planned to retrieve them.
Ruth unplugged the shredder before it started. Noah's evidence team photographed everything.
Then my phone rang. Unknown number.
"Claire," a woman whispered. "My name is Lena Ortiz. Don't trust the man who brought you here."
May you like
I looked up at Noah. He was standing with his back to me, speaking quietly into an earpiece.
THE DOORS SHE OPENED •
