Daddy, please... grandma locked me in the dark room behind the clinic, whispered five-year-old Luke, his voice trembling before a loud crash and a sharp scream cut the phone line dead.
The glowing red dot on my phone screen pulsated, a digital heartbeat echoing the frantic rhythm in my chest. It wasn’t at Forest Park. It wasn’t anywhere near Forest Park.
The tiny GPS tracker, a secret safeguard I’d sewn into Luke’s beloved dinosaur, Rex, pointed squarely to the St. Jude Medical Center. Not just any part of it, but the restricted West Wing.
My orderly uniform felt like a flimsy disguise as I navigated the hospital’s back corridors. The familiar scent of antiseptic and stale coffee usually calmed me, a reminder of my past life as a doctor. Now, it only sharpened my terror.
I swiped my ID badge at a lesser-used service entrance, slipping into the network of tunnels connecting the main hospital to the older annexes. The map on my phone showed Rex, and by extension Luke, on the third floor of what used to be the pediatric hospice wing. It had been decommissioned for years, a hushed space leased by Darlene Kowalski’s property management firm.
The corridors grew dimmer the deeper I went, the linoleum floors scuffed and silent. Old medical charts, long forgotten, peeked out of metal bins next to closed doors. Dust motes danced in the slivers of weak sunlight filtering through grime-streaked windows.
Reaching the third floor, the air felt heavy, stagnant. I moved with a practiced quiet, my rubber-soled shoes making barely a sound. The red dot on my phone was now hovering directly over Room 304.
My hand reached for the cold metal handle. Just as my fingers brushed it, a familiar, imperious voice echoed from the far end of the hallway.
“Is that necessary, Officer?” Darlene.
My blood ran cold. I pressed myself against the wall, peering around the corner. Darlene, immaculate in her tailored suit, was walking slowly with a hospital security guard. Her face was calm, a mask of composed authority, as she gestured vaguely down the hall.
“A routine check, ma’am,” the guard replied, his voice gruff.
Darlene’s eyes, sharp and calculating, swept the hallway, pausing for just a beat near where I was hidden. My heart hammered against my ribs. I pulled back instantly, diving into the nearest open door.
It was a supply closet. The cramped space smelled faintly of bleach and sterile gauze. I held my breath, listening to the slow, measured cadence of their footsteps as they passed. Darlene’s low murmur, the guard’s deeper response.
They moved past Room 304, then continued down the corridor. My muscles tensed, ready to bolt.
“Just making sure everything is in order,” Darlene’s voice faded. “Given the… circumstances.”
The footsteps receded, then vanished. I waited, counting to fifty, my ear pressed to the door, before I dared to crack it open. The hallway was empty. But Darlene knew something. She was here, in this closed wing, and she had a security guard with her.
It was a warning. She was onto me, or at least wary. And Luke was still behind that door.
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