Chapter 7 - The Investigation of Grace
A week later, Michael Rivers was discharged from Manhattan Presbyterian Hospital.
Against his doctors' recommendations to spend at least a month at a private recovery retreat in the Hamptons, Michael returned to his penthouse apartment in Manhattan. The apartment was a masterpiece of minimalist design—all white marble, floor-to-ceiling glass, and furniture that looked more like modern sculpture than places to sit. It was beautiful, expensive, and entirely devoid of life.
Michael stood by the window, wearing a simple linen shirt and trousers. He looked out at the city skyline. His chest still ached where Clara Evans had performed the chest compressions that saved his life, a physical reminder of his mortality.
Naomi entered the room, holding a thick manila folder. She looked at Michael with concern. "You should be resting, Michael. The board is waiting for your digital signature on the merger documents."
"The board can wait," Michael said without turning around. "Did you find them?"
Naomi walked over and placed the folder on the marble kitchen island. "Yes. Clara Evans, thirty-two. Single mother. She lives in a two-bedroom apartment in Astoria, Queens. She’s worked at the St. Jude Community Clinic for six years. Her salary is... well, it’s less than what we pay for annual office coffee supplies."
Michael walked over to the island and opened the folder. He looked at the photograph attached to the background check. It was a copy of Clara’s driver’s license—a tired-looking woman with kind eyes and dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. Attached were smaller school photos of Lily and Mia. They were smiling brightly, their front teeth missing, their eyes full of a vibrant, innocent energy that Michael hadn't seen in decades.
He read through the financial report Naomi had prepared. Clara was drowning in debt—student loans from her nursing degree, medical bills from a past illness, and the ever-increasing rent of a New York apartment. Yet, according to the clinic files, she regularly volunteered her extra time to run free vaccination clinics for neighborhood children.
"They have nothing," Michael murmured, his fingers tracing the edge of the girls' photograph.
"Financially, no," Naomi agreed. "But the neighborhood loves her. The police report notes that when she returned to the clinic after saving you, the locals brought her food and flowers. She’s a pillar of that little community."
Michael closed the folder. He thought about his own life. If he had died in that park, his funeral would have been attended by hundreds of people in expensive suits. There would have been speeches about his vision, his determination, his success. But would anyone have cried? Would anyone have brought flowers because they loved him, or simply because it was the politically correct thing to do for a deceased business tycoon?
"Get the car, Naomi," Michael said, picking up his jacket.
May you like
"Michael, the doctors said no stressful activity," Naomi warned. "Going to Queens—"
"Going to Queens is the least stressful thing I’ve done in twenty years," Michael said, a faint smile appearing on his lips for the first time since his awakening. "And Naomi... don't call ahead. I don't want a performance. I want to see the truth."
