Chapter 3 - Shadows at Saint Jude’s
The rain had turned into a heavy downpour by the time Spencer’s bulletproof Maybach pulled up under the gleaming glass canopy of Saint Jude’s Hospital. Inside the vehicle, baby Dexter slept undisturbed, nestled safely in a high-tech portable bassinet Spencer had purchased on the fly, while Charlee clutched her new blue bear like a shield.
Dr. Pamela Ortiz had driven separately, her nerves frayed to a breaking point, trailing behind them like a ghost.
As they entered the VIP wing—secured immediately by two of Spencer’s private bodyguards who had materialized out of the rain—they were met by Dr. Alan Vance, the chief attending physician.
"Mr. Warren," Dr. Vance said, wiping his hands with a sanitary wipe. "We stabilized Mrs. Miller. She suffered a severe bronchial infection combined with exhaustion. She hasn't eaten properly in weeks. But she is conscious and asking for you."
"Take us to her," Spencer ordered.
Room 408 was quiet, illuminated only by the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor and the dim amber glow of a bedside lamp. Florence Miller lay propped up against the pillows. At seventy-two, her face was a map of deep wrinkles, weathered by decades of hard labor and bitter grief, but her eyes—those sharp, familiar gray eyes—shone with a fierce, undiminished light.
When the door clicked open and Charlee rushed in, crying out, "Grandma!", Florence’s face transformed.
"My sweet girl," Florence croaked, opening her frail arms. Charlee scrambled onto the bed, burying her face in her grandmother's hospital gown, careful not to disturb the IV lines.
Spencer stood near the foot of the bed, his hands resting inside the pockets of his tailored wool coat. Pamela lingered nervously by the door, unable to look the old woman in the eye.
Florence raised her head, looking past Charlee’s small frame directly at Spencer. The silence in the room grew heavy, charged with thirty years of buried secrets.
"You've grown into your father's face, Spencer," Florence said, her voice dry as autumn leaves. "Cold. Imposing. But you always had your mother's heart, deep beneath the frost."
"Cut to the chase, Florence," Spencer said, though his tone lacked its usual harshness. "Casey told me what you claimed. Is it true? Are we related?"
Florence let out a dry, hacking laugh that turned into a cough. Charlee gently patted her back, just as she had patted baby Dexter's earlier.
"It’s true," Florence whispered. "Your father, Arthur, was a monster wearing a tailored suit. When I was nineteen, working in the east wing nursery, he used his power to destroy my life. When I fell pregnant with my daughter, Clara—Charlee's mother—he paid me off with a pittance and threatened to throw me in prison for theft if I ever spoke a word. Clara grew up in the slums, hating the Warren name. When Clara passed away last month, I took Charlee in. But I knew... I knew the bloodline would catch up."
Spencer stepped closer to the bed. "If you knew who I was, why didn't you come to me sooner?"
"Because your father had watchers everywhere," Florence spat, anger flaring in her faded eyes. "And because I didn't want your tainted money. But God works in strange ways, Spencer. He sent this little girl out into the storm, straight to your doorstep, with a baby that doesn't belong to you—or rather, belongs to you more than you know."
"What do you mean by that?" Spencer asked, his instincts snapping to attention. "You know something about Dexter?"
Before Florence could answer, the door to Room 408 flew open with a violent crash.
Standing in the doorway was Mrs. Mabel, panting heavily, her usually pristine gray bun disheveled, and her face drained of all color. Behind her stood two of Spencer’s estate security guards, looking apologetic and panicked.
"Sir! Thank God we found you!" Mrs. Mabel gasped, clutching her chest.
"Mabel? What is the meaning of this?" Spencer demanded, stepping between the housekeeper and the bed where Florence and Charlee sat. "You should be at the mansion."
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"The mansion..." Mabel choked out, tears streaming down her weathered cheeks. "Mr. Spencer, someone broke into the master wing while we were gone. They ransacked your private safe. And... and they took the security hard drives. The whole house is compromised!"
Spencer’s eyes flashed with a dangerous light. The trap had sprung sooner than he expected. Someone inside the estate was desperately trying to erase the truth—and they were willing to kill to keep it buried.
