Chapter 3 - The Dead Man Downstairs
Arthur refused to leave the baby.
That was the first problem.
The second was that a man claiming to be Richard Sterling was already inside the hospital.
Security wanted Arthur downstairs.
Arthur wanted the man brought to the NICU.
I wanted both of them somewhere far away from a premature infant who had already endured more chaos in two days than most adults experienced in years.
Denise stepped between Arthur and the exit.
“You stay here.”
His eyes flashed.
“If that man knows where Hannah is—”
“And if he doesn’t?”
Arthur stopped.
Denise lowered her voice.
“You’re holding a medically fragile child. You are not going anywhere angry.”
Arthur looked down.
Baby Girl Sterling had settled again against his chest.
His entire posture changed.
“You’re right.”
Security escorted Denise downstairs.
I remained beside Arthur.
For almost ten minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “Richard Sterling raised Emily.”
“Her father.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re certain he died?”
“I attended the funeral.”
I looked at him.
“You were invited?”
“No.”
A faint, bitter smile crossed his face.
“I stood across the road.”
That told me more than I wanted to know about the kind of family Arthur had spent decades trying to reach.
“What was Richard like?”
“Rich.”
Arthur’s answer came immediately.
“Connected. Controlled everything.”
“That isn’t exactly a personality.”
“It was his.”
Arthur adjusted the blanket around the infant.
“He owned Sterling Agricultural Equipment. Started with three dealerships and turned it into a national company. People in Omaha treated him like royalty.”
I recognized the name then.
Sterling Industries had manufacturing facilities throughout Nebraska and Iowa.
“What happened to the company?”
“Sold after he died.”
Arthur looked toward the doors.
“At least, that’s what the papers said.”
Denise returned twelve minutes later.
She wasn’t alone.
Behind her walked a tall man in a dark overcoat.
Silver hair.
Polished shoes.
Expensive watch.
He looked approximately sixty.
Arthur rose so quickly that the baby startled.
“No.”
The man stopped.
His face changed when he saw Arthur.
“Arthur.”
The voice was low.
Familiar.
Arthur looked as though he had seen a ghost.
“Richard?”
The man’s eyes moved toward the baby.
Then back to Arthur.
“We need to talk.”
Arthur’s expression transformed.
All the vulnerability disappeared.
“What did you do to my daughter?”
The man lowered his hands.
“Nothing.”
Arthur stepped forward.
I put myself between them.
“Not here.”
Richard’s gaze shifted to me.
“You’re the charge nurse?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Richard Sterling.”
“I gathered.”
He looked at the infant.
“That child is my great-granddaughter.”
Arthur’s head snapped toward him.
“You know?”
Richard ignored him.
“I need to arrange private security for this floor.”
“No,” I said.
His eyebrows rose.
“No?”
“This NICU has hospital security. No outside personnel without administration approval.”
Richard looked almost offended that the laws of the universe still applied to him.
Arthur said, “Where is Hannah?”
Richard’s face tightened.
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to listen.”
“You buried me alive twenty-five years ago.”
Richard’s eyes flickered.
“Yes.”
That single word knocked the anger out of the room.
Arthur stared at him.
“You admit it?”
Richard breathed through his nose.
“I made decisions I believed were necessary.”
“You stole my child.”
“I protected my granddaughter.”
“From what?”
“From a man who woke screaming every night and couldn’t hold a spoon.”
Arthur lunged.
I grabbed his forearm.
Security moved immediately.
The baby began crying.
Arthur froze.
He looked down.
His anger vanished.
“Hey.”
He backed away.
“I’m sorry.”
The infant calmed as he rocked her.
Richard watched that happen.
Something complicated moved across the older man’s face.
Arthur noticed.
“You never thought I could do this.”
Richard said nothing.
“You decided what kind of father I was before I ever had the chance.”
“I saw you after the explosion.”
“I was injured.”
“You were broken.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened.
“No.”
His voice was quieter now.
“I was wounded.”
Richard’s expression shifted slightly.
Arthur continued.
“And you used that wound to erase me.”
Richard looked away.
For once, he had no answer.
Denise pulled a chair toward the glass consultation room beside the NICU.
“Everyone sits.”
Richard started to object.
She pointed.
“Now.”
Perhaps it was the tone social workers developed after years of dealing with judges, addicts, surgeons, grieving parents, and insurance companies.
Richard sat.
Arthur remained holding the baby.
I joined them.
Richard folded his hands.
“I did not die fifteen years ago.”
“We noticed,” Arthur said.
Richard ignored the remark.
“The funeral was staged.”
“Why?”
“Because I was going to prison.”
Arthur blinked.
“For what?”
“Financial fraud. Bribery. Tax violations.”
Richard’s expression remained disturbingly calm.
“I had people in state government protecting several contracts. When the investigation expanded, I was warned.”
“So you ran.”
“Yes.”
“You made your daughter believe you were dead?”
“She knew.”
Arthur looked stunned.
“Emily knew?”
Richard nodded.
“Until the day she actually died.”
Something in his tone changed.
Arthur leaned forward.
“What does that mean?”
Richard’s polished composure cracked for the first time.
“Emily’s accident wasn’t an accident.”
No one spoke.
Richard continued.
“She was preparing to testify against the people who helped me disappear.”
Arthur stared.
“And Hannah?”
“Hannah witnessed something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“You expect me to believe—”
“I wasn’t there.”
Richard rubbed his forehead.
“After Emily died, I tried to get Hannah out of the country. She refused. She was nine.”
Arthur swallowed hard.
“She was nine years old.”
“Yes.”
“And you still didn’t call me.”
Richard finally looked ashamed.
“No.”
Arthur whispered, “Why?”
“Pride.”
Arthur laughed bitterly.
“Pride?”
“I had spent years telling everyone you were unstable. Dangerous. Unfit.”
Richard’s voice dropped.
“To admit Hannah needed you meant admitting I had been wrong.”
Arthur stared at him.
Richard met his eyes.
“I was wrong.”
It was the apology Arthur had probably wanted for decades.
It did nothing.
“Where did Hannah go?”
“Foster care.”
Arthur looked ready to be sick.
“You sent my child into foster care rather than call me?”
“I thought I could retrieve her when things settled.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
Richard looked down.
“She disappeared from the system at seventeen.”
Arthur’s voice cracked.
“You lost her.”
“Yes.”
The baby stirred.
Arthur’s eyes filled.
“You stole eight years from me, and then you lost her.”
Richard said nothing.
Arthur looked toward the windows.
Outside, snow had begun to fall over Omaha.
For a long time, only the machines spoke.
Then Denise asked the question none of us had considered.
“If you haven’t seen Hannah in nine years, how did you know she gave birth here?”
Richard’s eyes hardened.
“Because someone contacted me.”
Arthur turned.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Richard reached inside his coat.
Security instantly tensed.
He slowly removed an envelope.
“I received this yesterday.”
He placed it on the table.
Inside was a photograph.
Baby Girl Sterling.
Taken inside our NICU.
My pulse accelerated.
“That image wasn’t released.”
“I know.”
The photo showed the baby alone in her incubator.
Written beneath it in black ink were six words.
THE VANCE BLOODLINE ENDS IN BED SEVEN.
Arthur’s face drained.
I grabbed the photograph.
“This was taken inside our unit.”
Richard nodded.
“And whoever took it knew who she was before the hospital did.”
Denise stood.
“We need administration and police.”
Arthur stared at the baby.
“Bloodline.”
Richard looked at him.
“There’s something else.”
Arthur’s expression turned cold.
“What?”
Richard hesitated.
“The night Emily died, she called me.”
“And?”
“She told me Hannah had learned the truth.”
“What truth?”
Richard looked from Arthur to the newborn.
Then he said something that changed the story again.
“Arthur, you were never the man my family was afraid of.”
Arthur frowned.
Richard’s voice lowered.
“They were afraid of your father.”
Arthur went completely still.
“My father was a mechanic in North Platte.”
“No.”
Richard shook his head.
“The man who raised you was a mechanic.”
Arthur stared at him.
Richard slid another photograph across the table.
It showed two young soldiers in Vietnam-era uniforms.
One of them had Arthur’s eyes.
On the back, written by hand, were the words:
Thomas Vance and Senator William Sterling. 1971.
Arthur looked up.
May you like
Richard whispered,
“The reason my family destroyed your relationship with Emily began long before either of you were born.”
