Chapter 8 - The Shadow in the Hall
"Drive!" I roared at Marlow, slamming my fist against the dashboard. "Drive, damn it!"
The cruiser’s siren wailed as Marlow threw the vehicle into gear, tires screeching against wet asphalt. We blew through two red lights, swerving around morning delivery trucks, sirens bouncing off concrete skyscrapers.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
*Julian.* He didn't go to a client meeting. He had doubled back to finish the job before Ethan could wake up.
We screeched to a halt at the emergency entrance. I threw the door open before the car even stopped rolling, sprinting through the glass doors, past the startled security guards, straight toward the service elevators.
"Stairs!" I shouted back at Marlow.
We bounded up four flights of concrete stairs, three steps at a time, my aging lungs burning with fire. I burst through the fire door onto the fourth floor.
Alarms were blaring from Room 408.
A nurse was bagging Ethan manually with an Ambu bag while a doctor shouted orders: "Reconnect the line! Who touched the wall manifold? That valve was manually twisted shut!"
I scanned the hallway. At the far end of the corridor, near the service exit leading to the west parking structure, a figure in a dark trench coat was walking briskly away.
"Julian!" I screamed.
The figure stopped, turned for a fraction of a second—revealing the sharp, terrified profile of Julian Vance—and then bolted through the double crash doors.
"Stop police!" Marlow yelled, unholstering his weapon and sprinting down the corridor.
I started to follow, but my eyes caught the glass window of Room 408. Through the chaos, through the swarming scrubs, I saw Ethan’s chest rise and fall as the ventilator clicked back on. His monitor stabilized.
And then, his left hand twitched.
His eyelids fluttered, crusted with dried blood and tears, fighting against the crushing weight of the coma.
I abandoned the chase. Marlow was an armed detective; my place was here. I stumbled into the room, shoving past an orderly who tried to stop me.
"Sir, you can't be in here—"
"I’m his father," I said, my voice thick with steel. "Get out of my way."
I reached the bedside and grabbed Ethan’s cold, limp hand. His fingers were rough, scarred with small cuts from working archiving machines. I fell to my knees beside the metal bed rail, pressing his knuckles against my forehead.
"Ethan," I sobbed, the dam breaking completely. "Ethan, I know. God forgive me, I know everything. You don't have to protect me anymore. I’m here. Dad is here."
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Against my forehead, his fingers weakly, unmistakably tightened.
***
