They told me she was just an unidentified vagrant brought into Bayfront Medical Center at 2:00 AM.
The silence in the basement was broken only by the hum of the distant generators and the faint clicking of Mr. Jenkins’s specialized tools. The hospital lights flickered again, a definitive signal that the power-generator test was minutes from commencing.
I couldn’t wait.
I lunged forward, tackling Mr. Jenkins from behind. He grunted, surprised, his body slamming against the metal panel. The bypass tool clattered to the concrete floor.
“What the—” he began, scrambling to turn around.
I didn’t give him a chance. My surgical reflexes took over. I pinned him against the cold metal, my forearm pressed against his throat. He struggled, but I held him fast.
“You’re working for Higgins,” I growled, my voice raw with fury.
He squirmed, his eyes wide with fear. “I… I was just following orders!”
My gaze dropped to the floor. The specialized bypass tool lay there, undeniably incriminating. It wasn’t standard maintenance equipment; it was designed for discreet, targeted power disruption.
I reached for my phone, pulling it from my pocket. “Say that again,” I demanded, aiming the camera at his terrified face. “Tell me whose orders you were following, and what you were told to do.”
He stammered, his eyes darting wildly. “Higgins… Dr. Higgins told me… told me to cut the auxiliary line to room 312. Just for a few minutes. Said it was a faulty circuit.”
The video light glowed, recording his confession. It was crude, but undeniable. Video evidence of attempted murder, with a direct link to Higgins.
I pulled away from him, giving him enough space to breathe. He gasped, rubbing his throat, staring at me with a mix of fear and resignation. The main circuit breaker, untouched, still connected to Hannah’s room, was safe.
I secured the primary line, ensuring no further tampering. The power shift happened seamlessly, the lights dimming for a moment, then stabilizing. Hannah’s ventilator, I knew, would keep humming.
With the video evidence, the physical logs from Sister Clara, and Beatrice’s offshore ledgers, I had an arsenal. But a court system could be delayed, spun, buried in legal motions for years. Higgins would use his money, his connections.
No. This evidence wasn’t for a judge. It was for the people who truly controlled Higgins’s money. The hospital board. The financial backers. The people who cared about institutional reputation and their own bottom line more than anything else.
I had the leverage. Now, it was time to deploy it.
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