Chapter 2

The red light above the operating room had been on for four solid hours.

Daniel's pupils were already unequal in size. His intracranial pressure had spiked to forty-five. The attending surgeon burst out of the OR, her shoes squeaking against the hallway floor.

"Dr. Holloway, your brother needs an emergency decompressive craniectomy. But he has Rh-negative blood, and the hospital blood bank only has one batch in stock — it requires the director's authorization to release. Also, Sterile Suite 3 is the only OR that meets the contamination standards for this surgery, and it's currently undergoing equipment calibration —"

"I'll go find Ethan right now."

I ripped the IV catheter from the back of my hand and ran downstairs barefoot.

When I reached the door of the director's office, it was locked from inside. I could hear Vivian's voice through the door.

"Ethan, I just nicked my finger cutting a mango, and now my heart is racing so fast — I think I'm going to faint... Hold me."

I pounded on the door. More than thirty times.

The door opened. Ethan blocked the doorway, his shirtsleeves rolled to his forearms, his jaw set, his face hard.

"Daniel's intracranial pressure is about to blow. He needs Rh-negative blood and Sterile Suite 3. Just sign the form. Ten seconds."

"The blood has already been allocated to Vivian."

I thought I'd misheard.

"What did you say?"

"Vivian has a severe clotting disorder! She just had sudden acute abdominal pain — suspected corpus luteum rupture with internal bleeding! If she hemorrhages, she could go into shock at any moment. The blood and Sterile Suite 3 have to be reserved for her!"

"Hers is only suspected! Daniel's intracranial pressure has already blown — he's going to die any second!"

"What are you saying? Vivian's life doesn't matter?"

"I can't gamble with Vivian's life. Your brother is already a cripple — waiting an extra hour for the surgery won't kill him!"

Vivian peered out from behind him, her left index finger wrapped in a strip of gauze. The gauze was clean. Not a speck of blood.

I stared at that strip of gauze, then looked toward the OR, where the red light was still flashing.

He shut the door. The bolt clicked into the lock with a sharp snap.

Outside, it had begun to pour.

I ran to the front steps of the main building and dropped to my knees. Rain hammered down on my head, streaming through my hair and flooding into my collar. I slammed my forehead against the wet concrete, again and again. On the fourth strike, the skin on my forehead split open, and blood mixed with rainwater ran into my eyes.

Ethan emerged from the building. He held a black umbrella, his leather shoes splashing through the puddles, the cuffs of his trousers damp.

"Get up. You're making a spectacle of yourself. Keep this up and I'll have security drag you away."

"Please. Just sign the form. I'm on my knees — sign it and I'll get up."

The toe of his shoe stopped four inches from my face.

Then it lifted and drove into my right side.

I tumbled from the third step and slammed my back against the stone post at the bottom. Something inside my chest snapped — I felt it from within.

My breath was cut off for two seconds. When I inhaled again, the pain in my right side curled me into a ball.

Forty minutes later, the red light above the OR went dark.

Not because the surgery was complete.

Because the blood and operating room authorization never came, and the intracranial pressure had crushed the brainstem.

Daniel died on a gurney outside the operating room. One of the gurney's wheels had caught in the gap between hallway tiles, leaving it stranded at the corner, crooked and forgotten.

He was still covered with the jacket I had draped over him that morning before leaving the house. In the jacket pocket was a receipt from the bakery on the ground floor of Grandview Mall. Chocolate mousse cake, with piped icing that read: "Happy Birthday, Sis."

I signed the release-of-remains form. On the back, the attending surgeon had privately written a line in pencil: Direction of impact inconsistent with an accidental fall. Recommend re-examination.

That was the truth.

I had obtained the real diagnostic report — the impact wound on the back of Daniel's skull showed a horizontal pushing force, completely contradicting the vertical force pattern of a fall from height. He had been shoved hard from directly behind.

I dialed 911.

Before the call connected, the ward door beeped open.

Four pathology department staff in protective gear wheeled in a transport gurney. On it lay an empty body bag. The lead technician held an emergency disposition order bearing the director's signature.

"Next of kin for Daniel Holloway? This is the emergency remains-transfer authorization that you signed in the ER earlier. Director Sterling has approved it. Per protocol, the remains are to be transferred to Pathology immediately."

I blocked my Daniel's body.

"This disposition order is forged!"

Two security guards rushed in from the hallway, grabbed my arms, and pinned me to the floor. The morgue floor was wet, disinfectant and grime soaking through my clothes.

My face was pressed against the floor. The broken rib on my right side ground against the tile, and every time I struggled, the jagged edge stabbed toward my lung.

The pathology team unzipped the body bag.

"Don't touch him! He was murdered! I have evidence!"

The sound of the zipper drowned out my screams.

By the time the guards released me, the body had been wheeled away. The steel door of the Pathology wing clanged shut at the end of the hallway with a heavy, final sound.

Daniel didn't even leave behind an intact body.