Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Ward
The hospital room was cold, smelling faintly of antiseptic and bleached linen. Outside the window, the autumn rain beat against the glass in heavy, rhythmic sheets. I sat propped up against two stiff pillows, my left arm encased in thick white gauze that throbbed with a dull, persistent ache.
The door clicked open, and Diane slipped inside like a ghost. She didn't knock. She never knocked. She carried a small plastic container filled with homemade chicken soup, a grotesque display of domestic virtue considering what her son had done.
'How are you holding up, darling?' Diane asked, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness as she placed the container on the bedside table. 'Ryan is so stressed out. Between work and worrying about your medical bills, he hasn't slept in days.'
I kept my eyes fixed on the rain outside. 'Is that why he brought divorce papers? Because he’s so worried about me?'
Diane’s smile tightened, the corners of her mouth twitching. 'Be reasonable, Melissa. That house is worth a fortune on the commercial market. Ryan needs capital to expand his architectural firm. You sitting on an empty inheritance out of sentimental nonsense is dragging him down. You always were ungrateful to the men who provide for you.'
'My father built that house with his own hands,' I whispered, turning my head slowly to look her dead in the eye. The scars on my cheek stretched tight, pulling the skin uncomfortably. 'Ryan didn't build a damn thing. He just wants to sell it to pay off his gambling debts to Victor Vance.'
Diane’s face paled instantly. The plastic container rattled against the table as her hand shook. 'You... you don't know what you're talking about.'
'I know everything, Diane,' I said, my voice eerily calm. 'I know about the debts. I know about the mistress in downtown Chicago. And very soon, the police are going to know about the kitchen.'
May you like
She stepped back, her eyes wide with sudden panic. 'You’re bluffing. You were screaming in pain; you didn't see anything clearly. The cops already closed the report. Accidental slip on grease.'
'Accidents leave traces,' I replied, offering her a cold, humorless smile. 'Evidence, however, has a way of coming home.'
