Chapter 2 - The Ghost Ward
Blackwood Restorative Care wasn't listed on any public registry. It took me three days of digging through public property tax records at the county library to track down the address. It was situated fifty miles outside the city limits, hidden behind a wrought-iron gate and a thick perimeter of dense pine trees. It looked less like a hospital and more like a fortress.
I knew I couldn't just walk through the front door. With my parole status, any altercation would send me straight back to Blackgate Penitentiary. I needed to be a ghost.
I waited until 2:00 AM, when a heavy rainstorm rolled in, masking the sound of my footsteps. Dressed in dark clothes, I scaled the rough stone wall surrounding the estate, tearing my palms in the process. The grounds were meticulously kept, patrolled by a single security guard who was more interested in his phone than the perimeter.
I slipped through an unlocked side door near the laundry loading dock. The interior smelled of bleach and expensive lavender air freshener—the exact same scent Miranda had pumped through our family home.
I kept to the shadows, moving down the dimly lit corridors. There were no names on the doors, only numbers. Unit 1. Unit 4. Finally, at the very end of a sterile, isolated hallway: Unit 7.
The electronic keypad glowed red. I froze. I didn't have a code. But as I stared at the pad, I remembered my father’s silver pocket watch in my pocket. I pulled it out. The time was frozen at exactly 10:24. My mother's birthday. October 24th. It was the combination he used for everything.
I held my breath and punched in 1-0-2-4.
The light flashed green. The door clicked open.
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The room was dark, illuminated only by the rhythmic, pulsing glow of medical monitors. In the center of the room lay a hospital bed.
I crept closer. The man in the bed was frail, his skin paper-thin, a feeding tube snaking out from beneath his blankets. His hair had turned completely white. But even hollowed out and battered by years of chemical sedation, I recognized the sharp jawline and the proud slope of his nose.
“Dad?” I whispered, my voice breaking.
His eyelids fluttered. Slowly, painfully, they opened. His eyes—piercing and blue—locked onto mine. He couldn't speak. The stroke—or whatever toxins Miranda had fed him—had paralyzed the right side of his face and robbed him of his voice. But the intelligence, the sharp, blazing recognition in his eyes, was unmistakable.
Tears spilled down my cheeks as I grabbed his frail, trembling hand. He squeezed my fingers back, a weak but desperate grip.
He was alive. But he was a prisoner in his own body.
With his left hand, he weakly pointed toward the pocket watch I had placed on the nightstand. He tapped the glass face urgently. I picked it up, inspecting it closely. With a pocketknife, I pried open the back casing.
May you like
A tiny micro-SD card fell into my palm.
My father let out a ragged, exhausted sigh and closed his eyes. I had the ledger. I had the confession. And now, whatever was on this card was the final nail in Miranda’s coffin.
