She is just seeking attention, doctor, please don't let her dramatic episodes disrupt your triage bay, my stepmother told the ER physician as I lay bleeding onto the coastal clinic floor.
Rain poured over Atlanta, drumming a relentless rhythm against my windshield as I drove to Grady Memorial. The sky was bruised purple, reflecting the turmoil churning inside me. This wasn’t just about my career anymore. It was about my father’s legacy, and the truth.
Trey’s master keycard was cold in my hand as I navigated the deserted corridors of the hospital’s administrative wing. Floor twelve. The old records archives. The kind of place only Evelyn would hoard secrets.
The elevator chimed, opening onto a floor bathed in an eerie dimness. I swiped the keycard, the light on the reader blinking green, and the heavy door hissed open. Inside, rows upon rows of metal rolling stacks stretched into the gloom, a labyrinth of forgotten files. The air was dry and cool, smelling of paper and dust.
I pulled the heavy metal file drawers open, the rollers groaning under the weight of decades of medical history. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the silence. I searched for anything related to the coastal clinic, to my admission.
“Coastal Clinic,” I muttered, my fingers brushing over labels. “Tybee Island… transfer summary…”
There it was. Tucked away behind a stack of old foundation meeting minutes. The original coastal transfer file. And inside, not only the summary Trey had mentioned, but also the original toxicological panels from my admission night. The full, unaltered truth of my internal trauma, not the doctored lies Evelyn had fed the board.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Trey.
“They’re finalizing the draft documents now,” it read. “Buckhead residence. Evelyn, Aunt B, Uncle L. Your foundation seat. Gone.”
My blood ran cold. Evelyn was moving fast. Too fast. But I had the files. I had the truth.
Just as I tucked the documents into my bag, a floorboard creaked somewhere in the distant stacks. My head snapped up. Heavy footsteps echoed down the tiled hallway, slow and deliberate. A flashlight beam, thin and probing, swept across the rows of metal shelves. It was coming closer.
My heart leaped into my throat. I squeezed between two tall stacks, barely breathing, the documents clutched tight to my chest.
Had Trey’s keycard log tipped someone off? Or was Evelyn always this paranoid, checking her secret stash?
The footsteps grew louder, closer. The flashlight beam danced, illuminating the dark corners, inching towards my hiding place.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours