Chapter 8: What a Father Does
I took the stairs to Nora's floor.
The night nurse at the station looked up when I came through the door moving fast.
"Her room," I said.
"Is anyone — "
"She's fine.
She's sleeping.
A doctor checked on her forty minutes ago."
"Which doctor?"
The nurse frowned.
"Dr.
Pelham.
He's on overnight."
"Is Dr.
Pelham on her care team?"
A pause.
She reached for the chart.
"He's listed as a consulting physician.
Orthopedic."
"Call security.
Now.
And don't let anyone into her room who isn't on her primary team."
I was already moving down the hall.
Nora was asleep, exactly as the nurse had said.
The monitors were steady.
Nothing in the room was disturbed.
I stood in the doorway and made myself breathe.
Then I called Mitchell.
"Someone photographed her through the window," I said.
"From the parking structure across the street.
Within the last hour."
"I'm already in the building," Mitchell said.
"I've been here since ten.
I saw a man on the third level of the structure with a long lens.
I thought he was press."
"Did you get a photo of him?"
"Sending it now."
The image came through.
A man in a gray jacket, mid-forties, standing near a concrete pillar.
Professional posture.
Not press.
"Bishop," I said, switching lines.
"Already looking," Bishop said.
"Give me four minutes."
It took three.
"His name is Carl Deering.
He's a private investigator licensed in three states.
His biggest client for the past six years is a security consulting firm called Redgate Associates.
Redgate's primary contract is with — "
"Holbrook Defense Systems," I said.
"Yes."
They hadn't sent a warning.
They had sent a demonstration.
*We know where she is.
We can be close whenever we choose.*
I pulled a chair to the doorway of Nora's room, where I could see both her and the hallway.
And I called Grace.
"They photographed my daughter in her hospital room," I said.
"I have the photographer's identity.
He's a PI connected directly to Holbrook Defense Systems."
Grace was quiet for exactly two seconds.
"That changes my timeline.
I was going to wait until morning to file.
I'm filing now."
"What does that get us?"
"An emergency protective order naming Nora as a federal witness in an active investigation.
The moment that's on record, anyone who approaches her, photographs her, or attempts to interfere with her care is in contempt of a federal court.
I can also use it to accelerate the warrant and get the Aldrich assignment reviewed by morning."
"Do it."
"David." Her voice shifted slightly.
"Are you all right?"
I looked at Nora.
Her chest rising and falling.
The wires on her jaw.
The bruising that had spread further down her neck.
"File the paperwork," I said.
By three in the morning, Mitchell had two men in the hallway.
Lawson was in the parking structure.
Park had identified every camera angle covering the building's exterior and was monitoring all of them from a laptop in a car on the street below.
At four fifteen, Grace called back.
"Protective order is signed.
Aldrich has been removed from the case — conflict of interest, two of the sealed cases he handled are now part of the federal file.
New judge is assigned.
Warrant is being executed at six a.m."
"Which locations?"
"Holbrook's offices.
Kensington Construction headquarters.
The university's administrative building.
And Warren Fitch's law office."
I exhaled slowly.
"There's one more thing," Grace said.
"Dean Carver.
Preston Hale gave a statement two hours ago.
He came to us voluntarily.
He said Carver knew about the first incident — the one involving Emma Reyes — and personally called Fitch to arrange the settlement.
He has emails."
"Hale came forward on his own?"
"He said he'd been waiting for someone to give him a reason.
Your daughter gave him one."
I didn't speak for a moment.
"Get some sleep," Grace said.
"Tomorrow is going to be a long day."
I didn't sleep.
I sat in the chair by Nora's door and watched the hallway and thought about nothing in particular.
Around six, the morning shift began to arrive.
The light changed.
The hospital woke up around me.
At six forty-three, Nora opened her eyes.
She couldn't speak.
Couldn't move her jaw.
But she looked at me — really looked at me, the way she used to when she was small and had woken from a bad dream and needed to confirm I was still there.
I moved my chair closer and took her hand.
"It's handled," I said quietly.
"You don't have to worry about any of it.
It's handled."
Her fingers tightened around mine.
May you like
Same as the first night.
Weak, but enough.
