Chapter 4 - Shadows of the Past
I stared at the screen, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My police instincts kicked in immediately: do not panic, establish control, assess the threat.
I stood up, stepping toward the window overlooking the hospital parking lot. Down below, the streetlights cast long, ominous shadows across the rows of vehicles. Rain had begun to fall, slicking the asphalt. There was no sign of the person who had taken the photo, but they were close.
"Sarah? What is it?" Emily asked, noticing my sudden rigidity.
"Nothing," I lied quickly, putting my phone away. "Just precinct work. Em, I need to call in protection for this floor."
I walked out to the hallway and immediately dialed Detective Jack Reynolds—my former partner on the Major Crimes unit, a man I trusted with my life.
"Reynolds," his gravelly voice answered on the second ring.
"Jack, I need a favor. Off the record, but high priority. I need two trusted uniforms outside Room 412 at St. Jude’s right now. No questions asked yet, but treat it as a high-value protective detail."
Jack paused. "Sarah, I heard about Ryan. Word travels fast. Is this related to him?"
"It’s bigger than Ryan, Jack. Marcus is in town. There’s a blackmail scheme and federal financial crimes involved. Someone just texted me a photo of my car from the hospital parking lot with a direct threat against Emily and the baby."
A sharp intake of breath came over the line. "I'm sending Miller and Henderson right now. They'll be there in ten minutes. Where are you going?"
"To Emily's house," I said set my jaw tight. "I need to get that flash drive before Marcus’s people break in and find it—or destroy it."
"Sarah, don't go alone," Jack warned. "If Marcus is involved, he’s not working with street-level muscle. He uses high-end corporate security firms—essentially mercenaries with clean records."
"If I wait for a warrant or a tactical team, they'll burn the house down to cover their tracks," I replied firmly. "Meet me there if you can, but I’m moving now."
Twenty minutes later, I pulled up to Emily and Ryan's suburban house. The police tape from earlier was gone, cleared after the initial domestic investigation wrapped up. The neighborhood was completely dark and quiet, save for the rhythmic patter of rain against my windshield.
I parked two blocks away, stepping out into the cool night air. I drew my off-duty Glock 19, keeping it low at my side, and moved through the shadows of the neighboring lawns.
As I approached the side gate of Emily's property, I noticed the glass panel on the back patio door was shattered. Clean, precise cut—not the work of an amateur. Someone was already inside.
I slipped through the back entrance, slipping off my rain boots to move silently across the hardwood floor. The house smelled faintly of spilled wine and heavy perfume.
I navigated the hallway toward the nursery at the end of the hall. The room was decorated in soft yellow and cream colors, with a wooden crib sitting near the window and a plush armchair in the corner.
Sitting on the floor in front of the open closet was a tall man in a dark tactical jacket. He had a flashlight tucked between his teeth and was methodically throwing clothes out of a storage chest.
It wasn't Marcus. It was a hired professional.
I stepped into the room, raising my weapon with both hands. "Police! Freeze! Hands where I can see them!"
The man didn't flinch. Instead, with terrifying speed, he dropped his flashlight, spun around, and kicked the heavy wooden storage chest directly into my knees.
The blow knocked me off balance, my shot going wide and embedding itself in the ceiling with a loud BANG. Before I could recover, the man lunged forward, grabbing my wrist and slamming it against the doorframe. Pain flared up my arm, and my gun clattered to the floor.
He pinned me against the wall, his hand crushing my throat. "You should have stayed at the hospital, Detective," he growled.
I fought back, driving my elbow into his ribs and bringing my knee up sharply between his legs. He grunted, his grip loosening just enough for me to twist out of his hold. I grabbed a bronze lamp from the changing table and swung it with all my strength, striking him across the side of his head.
He staggered backward, crashing into the crib. I dove for my handgun on the floor, rolled onto my back, and pointed it straight at his chest.
"Move again, and I lay you out," I panted, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
The man wiped a trickle of blood from his temple, looking down at the barrel of my gun. He slowly raised his hands.
"Check the bear, Detective," he said, a twisted smirk appearing on his face. "You're already too late."
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I glanced toward the corner armchair. The stuffed teddy bear Emily had mentioned was lying on the floor. Its belly had been sliced open with a razor blade.
It was completely empty.
