They told me she was just an unidentified vagrant brought into Bayfront Medical Center at 2:00 AM.
The phone in the trauma bay had just clicked back into its cradle. Marcus Higgins’s voice, smooth and falsely concerned, still echoed in my head.
I found him in the physician lounge, sipping coffee as if it were any other Tuesday morning. The scent of fresh brew mingled with the sterile hospital air.
“Marcus,” I said, my voice tight. “Why is Hannah Parker’s record flagged?”
He looked up, a faint, practiced smile touching his lips. He was too calm, too perfectly composed in his crisp surgical scrubs.
“Ethan, my dear fellow, you’re looking a bit frayed,” he said, gesturing to the armchair opposite him. “Long night?”
“Hannah Parker,” I repeated, ignoring the bait. “She was brought in as a Jane Doe. Her chart is restricted. Why?”
Marcus sighed, setting his cup down with a soft clink. “Ah, yes. The young woman. A transient, I believe. Came in under charity care protocol. No ID, multiple contusions. Frankly, a liability headache.”
He leaned back, his gaze unwavering. “We log these cases discreetly to avoid unnecessary public attention. Keeps the hospital out of the headlines, you understand.”
My eyes snagged on something metallic glinting from his open scrub pocket. A familiar silver chain.
Dangling from it was the small, battered silver locket I had given Hannah five years ago, etched with our initials. My breath hitched.
He caught my glance, his fingers closing casually around the locket, tucking it deeper into the pocket. The movement was too quick, too deliberate.
“We like to keep a few personal effects secure,” he said, his tone still even. “For identification purposes, should next of kin ever surface.”
The truth slammed into me. This wasn’t about charity or liability. He had known it was Hannah. He had authorized her silent intake under a fake name to prevent any police involvement, any paper trail. He was hiding her.
A cold dread settled deep in my stomach, quickly replaced by a furious, silent resolve.
“I’ll be personally overseeing her care,” I said, my voice flat, no longer asking, but stating a fact. “Every chart entry, every medication. Understood?”
Marcus’s smile didn’t waver, but something in his eyes hardened, a flicker of warning. “Of course, Ethan. Whatever helps you feel better.”
He stood, gathering his papers. “Just remember, we have protocols for a reason.”
I watched him walk away, the locket now completely hidden. He knew. And now, so did I.
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