Chapter 2 - THE AMBULANCE AND THE EVIDENCE
The frantic wail of sirens cut through the glass walls of Whitman & Reed Capital fifteen minutes later. Paramedics flooded the twenty-sixth floor, their heavy boots thudding against the carpet as they pushed past horrified junior associates and senior partners.
Madison was slipping in and out of consciousness. Her skin was a sickly, translucent blue, her lips pale, her fingers twitching uselessly against the blood-soaked fabric of her dress.
“Severe abdominal distress! Possible internal hemorrhaging!” one of the paramedics yelled, hooking an IV line into her arm while another pumped oxygen into her lungs. “We need a tox screen ready at Northwestern Memorial! Move!”
Ethan stood frozen near the edge of the hallway, his posture stiff, his hands stuffed deep into his suit pockets. To anyone else, he looked like a shocked executive witnessing a horrific workplace medical emergency. But I knew him. I knew the subtle twitch near his left eye. It was the same look he gave when a high-yield deal fell through or an audit revealed an anomaly he hadn't covered up in time.
He wasn't grieving. He was calculating his next move.
I backed away slowly into the crowd of onlookers until my shoulder hit the cold glass of my office door frame. My hands were trembling violently. I wrapped them around my stomach, pressing gently against the tiny, twelve-week-old life inside me.
If I had eaten that casserole...
My knees buckled slightly, but I forced myself to stand straight. I couldn't afford to break down. Not now. Not in front of him.
As the paramedics wheeled Madison’s stretcher toward the elevator bank, Ethan finally moved. He took a step toward the spilled food on the floor. The thermal container lay on its side, a greasy yellow-and-red puddle resting on the carpet. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a linen handkerchief, and bent down, intending to pick up the blue container.
“Don't touch that,” I said.
My voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the murmurs in the hallway with the sharpness of a razor blade.
Ethan stopped, his hand hovering inches above the plastic lid. He looked up at me, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.
“Claire,” he said, his tone dripping with fake concern, “the floor is a mess. I’m just cleaning up before the building management gets here.”
“It’s evidence,” I replied, stepping forward until I was standing directly across from him. “A woman is on her way to the ICU in critical condition after eating that food. Nobody touches anything until the police arrive.”
Whispers erupted among the staff gathered around us. Arthur Reed, my late father’s senior co-founder and a seventy-year-old titan of Chicago finance, pushed his way through the crowd. His thick gray eyebrows were drawn together in deep concern.
“Claire is right, Ethan,” Arthur boomed, his voice carrying undeniable authority. “Leave it. I’ve already called the precinct. Detective Miller is on his way up.”
Ethan slowly stood up, smoothing the front of his Tom Ford jacket. The panic in his eyes was quickly being replaced by the smooth, sociopathic charm that had made him one of the most successful fundraisers in the city.
“Of course, Arthur,” Ethan said softly, casting a sorrowful look at the floor. “I’m just... shaken. I can't imagine what could have happened. Maybe the dairy was spoiled, or—”
“Spoiled milk doesn't make a woman hemorrhage through a dress in forty minutes, Ethan,” I cut in, staring directly into his pale blue eyes.
He met my gaze. For a fraction of a second, the mask slipped again, revealing a glimpse of pure, unadulterated venom.
“I know you’re upset, Claire,” Ethan murmured, taking a step toward me and lowering his voice so only Arthur and I could hear. “You’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Your emotions have been... unstable. Let’s not make wild accusations before the doctors give us a diagnosis.”
Unstable.
There it was. The same word he had used after my first miscarriage. The same word he used whenever I asked why certain corporate accounts were being routed through offshore shell companies in the Cayman Islands. He was already building his narrative. The grieving, patient husband dealing with an emotionally fragile, paranoid wife.
“My emotions are perfectly fine, Ethan,” I whispered back, leaning closer so he could feel the cold fury radiating off me. “And so is my memory. You made that breakfast at five this morning. You personally handed it to me. You insisted I eat it.”
“Because I love you,” he hissed softly, his fingers tightening around his linen handkerchief. “Because I wanted to take care of you.”
“No,” I said, leaning in until my voice was barely a breath against his ear. “You wanted to kill what’s inside me.”
Ethan froze. The color drained from his lips so fast it looked as if his heart had stopped beating altogether.
He hadn't known I was pregnant. Or had he?
May you like
Before he could answer, the elevator doors chimed, and two uniformed police officers stepped out, followed by a tall woman in a dark trench coat with a silver detective badge clipped to her belt.
Detective Miller had arrived. And the game Ethan had started was about to turn deadly.
