Chapter 9 - Beneath the HospitalThe tunnel beneath St. Brigid’s smelled worse than the one beneath the Valente estate.
Damp stone.
Rust.
Old water trapped in walls that had listened to prayers for too many years.
Santos went first with two officers. Dante followed. Adrian kept close behind them. I stayed exactly where I had promised to stay—behind him, but not far enough to be useless.
The entrance was a narrow hatch half-hidden behind the chapel foundation. It opened to steep concrete steps slick with moisture. Emergency lights glowed red along the ceiling, weak and intermittent.
Somewhere ahead, a baby cried.
My heart seized.
Emma.
Adrian heard it too.
He nearly shoved past Santos.
She caught his arm.
“Slow.”
“My daughter is down there.”
“And if you run into a choke point, she loses her father too.”
He looked ready to argue.
Then Emma cried again.
Small.
Furious.
Alive.
He stopped fighting.
We moved.
The tunnel branched in three directions. One led toward hospital storage, one toward the abandoned convent, and one into darkness so complete my flashlight barely touched it.
Dante crouched near the floor.
“Wheel marks.”
Santos shone her light.
Thin tracks cut through dust.
Laundry cart.
We followed them.
The crying stopped.
That was worse.
Adrian’s breathing changed.
I recognized the sound because I had heard it from myself beside Lucia’s hospital bed.
A person trying not to fall apart because falling apart would waste time.
We reached an old storage chamber where pipes ran overhead. Crates lined the walls. A broken statue of Mary stood in one corner, her face half gone, her hands still open.
A blue blanket lay on the floor.
Empty.
Adrian picked it up.
His fingers trembled once.
Only once.
Then Dante raised one hand.
Voices.
Ahead.
A woman whispering fast.
A man answering.
Karen.
Harlan?
No.
Harlan was in custody.
Unless there were more.
We crept toward an archway.
Beyond it, a service room glowed with battery lanterns. A laundry cart stood near the far wall. Beside it, on a folded blanket, lay Emma.
Her tiny legs kicked weakly.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Tape covered the lower half of her pacifier to keep it in place.
A fury so pure went through me that I could not feel fear.
Karen Mitchell stood over her, crying.
Not the calculated woman from the rain.
Not the screaming accuser.
A wreck.
Mascara streaked her face. Her hair had fallen from its perfect bun. One hand clutched a flash drive on a chain around her neck.
A man beside her wore maintenance coveralls and held a gun.
I did not recognize him.
Dante did.
His face hardened.
“Rafe.”
The man turned.
So much for surprise.
He lifted the gun.
Everything froze.
Adrian’s eyes went to Emma.
Rafe smiled.
“Boss.”
Dante’s voice dropped.
“You stupid son of a—”
“Don’t,” Rafe warned.
His gun shifted toward Emma.
Adrian went utterly still.
Karen sobbed.
“I told you no guns near her.”
“Shut up.”
Santos aimed from behind the archway.
“Chicago Police. Put it down.”
Rafe laughed.
“Not how this works.”
Adrian spoke then.
Quietly.
“Rafe, you worked my south gate for four years.”
“Yeah,” the man said bitterly. “And watched you hand millions to people who already had everything.”
“Who paid you?”
Rafe’s smile twisted.
“Your stepmother paid on time.”
Karen shook her head.
“She lied. She said Emma would be taken somewhere safe. She said Adrian was unstable. She said the court would remove him and Emma would live with family.”
I stared at her.
“You put her in a dumpster.”
Karen flinched like I had slapped her.
“No.”
The word came out broken.
“I didn’t. I didn’t know they changed the location. I was told to leave her in the garden house after Harlan sedated her. I was told she’d be found by morning security.”
“She was in the trash,” I said.
Karen covered her mouth.
“I know.”
“You screamed that I did it.”
“I panicked.”
“No,” I said. “You calculated.”
Tears slid down her face.
“They had my son.”
The room shifted.
Even Santos’s expression changed.
Karen grabbed the chain around her neck.
“My little boy. He’s six. Celeste found out about him. She said if I didn’t follow instructions, he would disappear into foster care under a name I’d never find.”
My anger did not vanish.
It changed shape.
“You still chose to blame me.”
Karen’s face crumpled.
“I’m sorry.”
The apology floated in the damp air.
Small.
Useless.
Too late for jail.
Too late for the bruise.
Too late for Emma’s blue hand.
Rafe snapped, “Enough.”
He reached for Emma.
Adrian moved a fraction.
Rafe pointed the gun directly at him.
“Don’t.”
Emma whimpered.
My body knew before my mind did.
She needed air.
The pacifier.
The tape.
“She can’t breathe right,” I said.
No one looked at me.
So I made them.
“She is seven months old, sedated, cold, and crying through a blocked pacifier. If you want leverage, she has to stay alive.”
Rafe’s eyes flicked to Emma.
That was all I needed.
I stepped forward slowly.
Adrian hissed, “Isabella.”
I ignored him.
Karen stared at me.
“Let me fix it,” I said.
Rafe aimed at my chest.
“Stop.”
“You shoot me, she chokes while you argue with everyone else.”
His jaw tightened.
Emma’s legs kicked again.
Weak.
Too weak.
Karen sobbed, “Please. Let her help.”
Rafe cursed.
“Slow.”
I moved toward Emma one step at a time.
Every eye followed me.
My knees wanted to shake.
I refused them.
I reached the blanket and knelt.
Emma’s eyes were half-open. Her skin was pale, but not blue. Not yet.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I whispered.
Her tiny hand opened.
Karen made a sound behind me.
I peeled the tape carefully from the pacifier.
Emma sucked in a wet breath and began to cry.
Loud.
Angry.
Beautiful.
Adrian closed his eyes for half a second.
I slipped one hand beneath Emma’s back.
Rafe barked, “Don’t pick her up.”
“I’m not.” I looked down at Emma. “But she’s cold.”
“She’s fine.”
“No, she isn’t.”
I lifted my eyes to Karen.
“You know she isn’t.”
Karen pressed trembling fingers to her mouth.
Then she did the only brave thing I ever saw her do.
She threw the flash drive at Dante.
Rafe turned on instinct.
Santos fired.
Not at him.
At the lantern above his head.
Darkness shattered.
Dante moved.
Adrian lunged.
I grabbed Emma and rolled my body over hers as the room exploded into shouts, footsteps, and one terrible gunshot.
The bullet hit stone.
Dust rained down.
Emma screamed against my chest.
I curled tighter around her.
Someone struck the floor hard.
Someone cursed.
Then silence.
Not complete.
Emma cried.
I breathed.
That was enough.
A hand touched my shoulder.
I flinched.
“It’s me,” Adrian said.
His voice was hoarse.
I looked up.
Rafe was on the ground, cuffed, bleeding from a cut over his eye but alive. Santos stood above him. Dante held the flash drive. Karen knelt against the wall, hands raised, sobbing.
Adrian crouched in front of me.
His eyes moved over Emma frantically.
Then to me.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
“Emma?”
I loosened my arms.
Emma wailed in outrage.
Adrian laughed once.
It sounded broken.
He reached for his daughter, then stopped.
He looked at me first.
Asking.
Not taking.
That small pause undid me more than any apology had.
I handed Emma to him carefully.
He gathered her against his chest.
His face folded.
Not fully.
Not for the room.
But enough that I saw a father hold the daughter he had almost lost twice.
Emma cried into his shirt.
Adrian lowered his head over hers.
“I have you,” he whispered. “I have you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Dante looked at the flash drive in his palm.
Santos saw it.
“What’s on that?”
Karen lifted her tear-streaked face.
“The real file,” she whispered. “Emma’s birth record.”
Adrian looked up.
May you like
Karen’s voice broke.
“And proof that Infant B did not die.”
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