Chapter 3 - Flatline and Whispers
Red alarm lights flared above the doorway of Room 408. A team of nurses and a resident in scrubs burst past us, shoving the door open.
"V-fib! Charge to one-fifty! Clear!"
I pressed against the glass, horror freezing the marrow in my bones. I watched the doctors slam the defibrillator pads against Ethan’s bruised chest. His body arched violently.
"No rhythm! Charge to two hundred! Clear!"
*Don't die,* my mind screamed, hands clawing at the window. *Don't you dare die before I look you in the eye. Don't you dare leave me with this.*
A second jolt tore through him. For five agonizing seconds, the flat, agonizing tone continued. Then, a ragged spike appeared on the monitor. A beep. Then another.
"Rhythm restored," a doctor called out, panting. "Sinus tach. Hang another unit of plasma and prep him for a CT scan. The swelling in the brain is worsening."
The medical team swarmed the bed, securing tubes and pushing medication. The resident stepped out, pulling off his latex gloves. He glanced at Marlow, then at me.
"Are you the father?"
The word hit me like a physical blow. For ten years, I had vehemently corrected anyone who called me his father. *I’m his mother’s husband,* I’d snap. *The boy has no relation to me.*
"I’m Robert Hale," I choked out. "Will he make it?"
"Next forty-eight hours will tell," the doctor said, fatigue etching deep lines around his eyes. "We reduced the bleed, but the coma is deep. If the intracranial pressure doesn't drop, we may be looking at permanent brain death. Talk to him. Sometimes auditory stimuli help stabilize neurological response. Other than that... pray."
Marlow touched my shoulder. "Mr. Hale, come with me to the precinct. We need an official statement."
"I’m not leaving," I said fiercely. "I left him ten years ago. I’m not stepping out of this hospital."
Marlow stared at me for a long beat, reading the guilt written across my face. He slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out the evidence bag containing Ethan’s leather notebook.
"Technically, this is evidence," Marlow said low. "But the brass key belongs to an Oregon Federal Bank branch two blocks from here. Ethan's personal effects haven't been entered into the central precinct log yet. I have a gut feeling whatever put him in that bed is connected to what’s in that notebook."
He handed me the plastic bag.
"Take a look. But don't ruin the chain of custody. If this turns into a homicide investigation, I’ll need it back."
My hands shook as I unzipped the plastic. I slid the leather journal out. The paper was warped from moisture, filled with Ethan’s tiny, obsessive handwriting.
I flipped past pages of dates, financial accounts, and medication schedules. Then I landed on an entry dated six months after Mara’s funeral.
*‘Robert thinks I stole the money. He thinks I let Mom die. He doesn't know what Julian did to the digitalis. If I tell Robert, Julian will put the blame on him. Robert signed the pharmacy receipts. They set him up. I have to find the supplier myself. I have to keep Robert safe.’*
I stopped breathing.
May you like
Julian Vance. My best friend. Mara’s family attorney. The man who sat beside me at Mara’s funeral and told me Ethan was toxic poison that needed to be cut out of my life.
***
