Chapter 3 - The Nurse Who Wasn't Supposed to Be Afraid
Celine Rivers smiled when I entered my father's room.
It was the smile of a woman who believed I knew nothing.
That realization gave me something fear had not.
Control.
She was thirty-five, composed, and meticulous, with her dark hair tucked beneath a surgical cap.
For two days I had trusted her hands.
I had watched her change IV bags.
Adjust monitors.
Check my father's pupils.
Speak softly to him as though unconscious patients deserved dignity.
Now every movement looked different.
“How are you holding up?” she asked.
“Barely.”
That answer required no acting.
She touched my arm.
“Try to rest.”
Adrian stood behind her.
“She won't listen to me.”
They both smiled.
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I sat beside my father.
His hand felt warmer than earlier.
“Has Dr. Hale been here?” I asked.
Celine's shoulders stiffened.
“Not yet.”
Adrian answered at the same time.
“He doesn't need to come again until rounds.”
Two different answers.
I looked down quickly before either of them could read my face.
Five minutes later, Dr. Hale entered.
He was a tired-looking man in his early fifties who normally moved quickly.
That morning he did not.
He approached my father.
“Mrs. Sterling, I'd like everyone to step outside while I perform a neurological evaluation.”
Adrian frowned.
“Why?”
“Standard assessment.”
“I've been present for every other examination.”
“This one requires minimal stimulation.”
Adrian's face remained pleasant.
“Of course.”
Celine started toward the medication cart.
Dr. Hale stopped her.
“You too, please.”
Her eyes flicked toward him.
Then Adrian.
There.
Again.
A glance.
Tiny.
Meaningful.
I forced myself not to react.
Outside the room, Adrian took my hand.
His thumb moved across my knuckles.
“You're cold.”
“I haven't slept.”
“You should go home tonight.”
The irony almost choked me.
“I thought you wanted me here.”
“I want what's best for you.”
Eleanor sat at the far end of the corridor pretending to read a magazine.
She never looked up.
Twenty minutes passed.
Dr. Hale emerged.
His expression gave nothing away.
“Your father has shown some neurological changes.”
Adrian straightened.
“What kind?”
“Responses to stimulus.”
“Reflex?”
“Possibly.”
I heard the careful wording.
“Can he hear us?” I asked.
“It's too early to say.”
Celine interrupted.
“His sedation could account for inconsistent responsiveness.”
Dr. Hale looked at her.
“His sedation has been discontinued.”
Her face changed.
Barely.
But I saw it.
Adrian did too.
“When?” he asked.
“Immediately.”
“Why wasn't I consulted?”
Dr. Hale's expression hardened.
“Because you're not the treating physician.”
For the first time since my father's stroke, someone had spoken to Adrian as though he were merely a relative.
Adrian smiled.
But his jaw tightened.
“I'm his medical proxy.”
“That documentation is being reviewed.”
The hallway went still.
Adrian looked at me.
I widened my eyes, pretending surprise.
“Reviewed?”
Dr. Hale nodded.
“Routine legal verification.”
It was not routine.
Someone was moving.
Margaret.
Or the investigator.
Maybe both.
Adrian released my hand.
“I'll speak to administration.”
He walked away.
Celine followed after a delay.
The moment they disappeared, Dr. Hale lowered his voice.
“He followed three commands.”
My heart leaped.
“What commands?”
“Grip. Release. Move his right foot.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“He's conscious?”
“He appears to have some level of awareness.”
“Can he speak?”
“Not while intubated.”
“Can he communicate?”
“Possibly.”
I stepped toward the glass.
“Then we need to ask him what happened.”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because if someone deliberately altered his medication, I need to know exactly what's in his bloodstream.”
I turned.
“You believe me.”
“I believe there are discrepancies.”
That was as far as he could go.
It was enough.
He continued.
“His chart contains two medication adjustments entered under my credentials.”
My mouth went dry.
“You didn't order them?”
“No.”
“Can Celine do that?”
“She can enter orders transmitted verbally in emergencies.”
“Did you give verbal orders?”
“No.”
I looked down the corridor.
“She forged them.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
Dr. Hale rubbed his forehead.
“Hospital security is reviewing access logs.”
“Does Adrian know?”
“Not from me.”
“Keep it that way.”
He studied me.
“You understand that if your allegations are correct, remaining here could be dangerous.”
“If I leave, my father is alone.”
“No,” Eleanor said from behind us.
We both turned.
She had rolled her wheelchair closer.
“He's not.”
Dr. Hale looked confused.
Eleanor smiled.
“Old women are invisible, doctor. It's one of the few benefits.”
That afternoon, Adrian became unusually affectionate.
Flowers arrived.
White roses.
My favorite, according to him.
They were not.
My favorite flowers were peonies.
I had told him once.
My father remembered.
Adrian never had.
He ordered lunch from a restaurant near the hospital and insisted I eat.
He rubbed my shoulders.
He told me I was brave.
Every gesture felt rehearsed.
At three, he received a phone call.
His face changed when he saw the caller.
He stepped away.
Eleanor watched him.
I pretended to scroll through my phone.
Adrian walked toward the balcony.
The same balcony.
Eleanor's eyes met mine.
I opened the recording application on my phone.
Then I did something the woman in Room 412 had taught me.
I listened.
Adrian spoke quietly.
“We have a problem.”
Pause.
“No, she's still manageable.”
My stomach turned.
“She didn't drive.”
Pause.
“I know what you said.”
Another pause.
“No. Don't touch anything else yet.”
He glanced through the glass door.
I lowered my head.
“Arthur needs to stop panicking. The trust isn't the issue if Victor never wakes up.”
A cold wave moved through me.
Then:
“And Celine needs to get control of Hale.”
His voice dropped too far to hear.
Seconds later, he returned.
“Business?”
I asked.
He smiled.
“Always.”
At four twelve, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
DO NOT RESPOND. FEDERAL AGENT DANIEL REYES. MARGARET SLOAN VERIFIED ME. WE NEED TO MEET WITHOUT YOUR HUSBAND.
I deleted the notification preview.
Another message followed.
Parking Level B3. 6:10 PM. Camera 18 is temporarily offline.
I had two hours.
They became the longest two hours of my life.
At five thirty, Arthur Vance arrived.
My uncle was sixty, silver-haired, expensive, and permanently irritated.
He entered carrying a briefcase.
“Any change?”
Adrian shook his head.
“Not meaningful.”
Arthur glanced at me.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
He ignored the sarcasm.
“I mean you should rest.”
Everyone wanted me to rest.
Everyone wanted me somewhere else.
Arthur stood near my father's bed.
For a second, something almost human crossed his face.
Regret.
Then Adrian touched his shoulder.
Arthur flinched.
Interesting.
Adrian was not merely working with Arthur.
Arthur was afraid of him.
“Walk with me,” Adrian said.
They headed toward the elevators.
At six, I told Eleanor I needed air.
She nodded.
“Take the service elevator.”
Level B3 smelled of concrete and oil.
Most of the lights were dim.
A man in jeans and a Chicago Cubs jacket stood beside a gray sedan.
“You Victor Vance's daughter?”
“Yes.”
He showed federal identification.
Daniel Reyes.
FBI.
Financial Crimes Division.
“I've reviewed what you gave Margaret,” he said.
“You believe me?”
“I believe somebody has committed multiple felonies already.”
“Murder?”
“Potentially attempted murder. We need evidence before I call it that.”
“My father is alive.”
“I know.”
“His nurse falsified medication orders.”
“We're coordinating with hospital security.”
“You can't arrest Adrian?”
“Not yet.”
“He sabotaged my car.”
“Technicians are examining it now.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did they find?”
Reyes hesitated.
“Your brake line was cut in a way designed to fail after pressure accumulated.”
I stared at him.
“So if I'd driven—”
“You might have gotten several miles.”
“And then?”
“You likely would've lost most braking pressure.”
The garage suddenly seemed airless.
Reyes continued.
“That's not all.”
“What?”
“We found residue around the cut.”
“I don't understand.”
“Someone wore nitrile gloves and wiped the area, but not carefully enough. We may recover trace evidence.”
“Celine?”
“Maybe.”
“Arthur?”
“Maybe.”
“Adrian?”
“Maybe.”
I hated that word.
Maybe.
Reyes handed me a small device.
“What is this?”
“Audio transmitter.”
“You want me wired?”
“I want you alive. If you can safely get Adrian talking, this gives us more.”
“About the will?”
“About everything.”
I looked at him.
“What aren't you telling me?”
Reyes paused.
Then said, “Your husband has been planning something for longer than your father's hospitalization.”
“How long?”
“At least six years.”
My mind flashed to the first message.
The girl is insecure.
“Why didn't anyone know?”
“Because Adrian Sterling is careful.”
“He's not a criminal businessman. He's a financial consultant.”
Reyes looked at me for a long moment.
“That's the problem.”
“What?”
“We're not sure Adrian Sterling exists the way you think he does.”
Before I could ask more, footsteps echoed from the garage entrance.
Reyes moved instantly.
“Go.”
I hid the transmitter beneath my blouse and stepped behind a concrete column.
A familiar voice carried through the garage.
Arthur.
“I told you, she's asking questions.”
Adrian answered.
“Then stop behaving like a guilty man.”
They were less than thirty feet away.
I pressed myself against the concrete.
Arthur sounded panicked.
“The hospital is auditing the orders.”
“I'll handle it.”
“And the car?”
A pause.
Then Adrian said something that removed the last part of me still hoping this was somehow a misunderstanding.
“The car was Plan A.”
Arthur whispered, “And Plan B?”
May you like
Adrian's reply was calm.
“Tonight.”
