Chapter 2 - The Maid Who Had Been a Surgeon
Dr. Nathan Cole arrived at Ashford House eighteen minutes later.
He was one of the few doctors in Chicago willing to enter my home without asking why armed men stood in every hallway.
He examined Ava while Claire stood beside him.
“You irrigated this?”
“Yes.”
“Removed the projectile?”
“Yes.”
“Any arterial bleeding?”
“No. Femoral pulse intact. No expanding hematoma.”
Nathan looked up sharply.
“You a nurse?”
Claire hesitated.
“No.”
“Paramedic?”
“No.”
“Then how the hell did you know what you were doing?”
Claire looked toward me.
“I used to be a surgeon.”
That silenced the room.
I stared.
“A surgeon.”
“Yes.”
“You applied to work in my house as domestic staff.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She looked toward Emma.
“Because I needed a job.”
“That explanation is insulting.”
Claire’s expression hardened.
“I don’t owe you every tragedy that happened before I cleaned your floors.”
Nathan looked between us.
“Fight later. Ava’s stable.”
I stepped immediately to my daughter.
“Hospital?”
“She needs imaging and antibiotics, but the bullet missed the femur and major vessels. She got lucky.”
Ava whispered, “Claire kept me awake.”
Nathan nodded.
“She probably prevented you from going into shock.”
I looked at Claire again.
“What kind of surgeon?”
“Trauma.”
Of course.
Nothing about the day was going to be simple.
Once Ava was transferred to a private hospital under guard, I moved Harper and Emma to my upstairs office.
Emma refused to leave Claire.
I allowed it.
Not because I had softened.
Because my daughter had finally started speaking.
I would have allowed a tiger into my office if Emma had asked politely.
Victor Shaw, my second-in-command, arrived after midnight.
He was forty-two, broad-shouldered, gray at the temples, and one of only three people I trusted with access to my daughters.
He looked at the blood still staining my shirt.
“Ava?”
“Stable.”
“Marcus?”
“Cellar.”
His expression darkened.
“Want me to talk to him?”
“Not yet.”
I placed the bullet on my desk inside a small evidence bag.
“This came out of Ava.”
Victor stared.
“You sure it was one of ours?”
“Claire says the caliber matches our security sidearms.”
Victor looked toward Claire.
She sat on the sofa with Emma asleep against her.
“Claire says?”
“She used to be a trauma surgeon.”
Victor slowly looked back at me.
“You hired a surgeon to dust bookshelves?”
“Apparently.”
Claire spoke without looking up.
“You didn’t ask many questions.”
Victor almost smiled.
I didn’t.
“Where did you work?”
Claire’s hand tightened slightly around Emma.
“St. Gabriel Medical Center.”
Victor’s expression changed.
I noticed.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“St. Gabriel closed four years ago.”
Claire answered.
“After the bombing.”
The word hit the room.
Victor stared at her scars.
“You were there.”
“Yes.”
I remembered the story.
A private medical facility outside Milwaukee.
Explosion during a charity gala.
Twenty-three dead.
Several doctors missing.
Investigators blamed an organized crime dispute.
“Why didn’t you go back to medicine?”
Claire looked directly at me.
“Because somebody tried to kill me twice afterward.”
Emma stirred.
Claire immediately lowered her voice.
Victor stepped closer.
“Who?”
“I never found out.”
I felt something cold settle in my stomach.
“Then why come into my house?”
Claire smiled bitterly.
“Because six weeks ago I was living above a laundromat with eighty dollars left in my checking account.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It’s the truth.”
Victor said, “Where’s your medical license?”
“Suspended.”
“Why?”
“Because controlled drugs disappeared from my trauma unit after the bombing. My signature appeared on the paperwork.”
“Were they yours?”
“No.”
“You were framed.”
Claire’s eyes flashed.
“Yes.”
I knew that expression.
The rage of someone who had spent years being called guilty for something they didn’t do.
I had seen it in men.
Rarely in someone this controlled.
I asked, “How did Ava get shot?”
Claire looked toward the door.
“She came into the kitchen through the service corridor. Bleeding.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“She said Marcus chased her.”
“Yes.”
“What happened before I arrived?”
Claire considered.
“She told me she entered your late wife’s room because she was looking for an old photograph.”
“Why?”
“School project.”
I closed my eyes.
A family-history project had nearly gotten my daughter killed.
Claire continued.
“She found the drive in a jewelry cabinet. Someone caught her with it.”
“Marcus.”
“She said she ran.”
“What about the gunshot?”
“She heard Marcus yelling behind her. Then she felt something hit her leg.”
Victor swore.
“Did she see him fire?”
“No.”
That mattered.
Marcus might still be lying.
But I never killed a man because a story felt convenient.
Not anymore.
“Where’s the drive?”
Claire shook her head.
“Ava wouldn’t tell me.”
“Why?”
“She said her mother told her years ago that if she ever found something hidden, she shouldn’t give it to anybody wearing your family crest.”
I stopped.
“What?”
Claire nodded.
“Those were Ava’s words.”
Victor looked at me.
“That’s specific.”
Too specific.
Our crest appeared on security uniforms, vehicle insignia, private stationery, cuff links worn by senior men.
Marcus wore it.
Victor did too.
So did I.
Meaning Elena had not trusted any of us.
Possibly including me.
I walked to the window.
Three years earlier, Elena died when a bomb destroyed her SUV on Lake Shore Drive.
I had believed the bomb was meant for me.
She had borrowed my vehicle that morning.
I had spent three years hunting the men responsible.
Three years killing alliances, buying information, destroying rivals.
And found nothing.
Now my dead wife had hidden a drive inside our home.
Victor lowered his voice.
“Adrian.”
“What?”
“If Elena knew something before the bombing…”
“She may not have been collateral damage.”
He nodded.
“She may have been the target.”
I stared into the dark gardens.
Something cracked inside me.
Not grief.
Grief had already lived in me too long.
This was worse.
Understanding.
Someone had killed my wife deliberately.
Then spent three years standing close enough to watch me blame the wrong people.
Emma suddenly spoke behind me.
“The bad man came before.”
I turned so fast my shoulder hurt.
Emma was awake.
Claire held her gently.
“What bad man?” I asked.
Emma pointed at the bullet bag.
“The man who hurt Ava.”
“Marcus?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
Victor and I exchanged a look.
I crouched.
“Sweetheart, who?”
Emma looked frightened.
Claire whispered, “You don’t have to answer.”
Emma stared at me.
Then toward Victor.
Then back at me.
“He came the night Mommy died.”
The room stopped breathing.
“Who came?”
Emma whispered:
“Uncle Victor.”
May you like
I slowly looked up.
Victor Shaw had gone completely pale.
