The Dead Wife's Spectacular Secret Return

Catherine stared at the flashing red light on the desk. The ringing was loud enough to make her ears ring. She shoved the silver pocket watch back into the hidden compartment of the drawer and slammed it shut. She took a deep breath, forcing the air down into her tight lungs. She smoothed the front of her shirt and picked up the receiver. "Dean Clarke speaking," she said. Her voice was ice. Static crackled through the phone. Then, a deep, rough male voice spoke. "Clear the VIP hallway. Now." Catherine gripped the phone tighter. "Excuse me? I am the Dean of this hospital. Public medical resources will not be restricted for private security." A low chuckle came through the speaker. "This is Clinton Barlow. I handle security for the Sinclair family. You will clear the hallway, Dean Clarke. That is not a request." Catherine's stomach dropped. The name hit her like a physical blow. Her fingers turned white around the plastic receiver. She pressed her lips together to stop them from trembling. She did not say a word. She placed the phone gently back on the base, cutting the line. She stood up, walked to the window, and looked down through the blinds at the private driveway below. Three black Chevrolet Suburbans roared into the hospital's private entrance. The tires squealed against the pavement. Down in the VIP lobby, Dr. Evan Reed was holding a paper coffee cup. He jumped when the SUVs stopped. Hot coffee splashed over the rim and burned his hand. Eleanor pulled him behind a marble pillar. The door of the middle SUV opened. Clinton Barlow stepped out. He wore a black tactical suit. His heavy boots hit the ground with a dull thud. The faint scar on Clinton's cheek caught the gray Boston light. His sharp eyes scanned the ceiling, locking onto every security camera in the area. Five armed guards poured out of the other vehicles. They formed a human wall between the cars and the glass doors, pushing back a few confused patients. "Who do these rich guys think they are?" Evan whispered, rubbing his burned hand. Eleanor slapped her hand over his mouth. "Shut up, Evan. That's the Sinclair family's chief of security. He's dangerous." Clinton stopped walking. He turned his head slowly and stared directly at the pillar where Evan and Eleanor were hiding. His eyes were like knives. Evan stopped breathing. He pressed his back flat against the cold marble. Clinton sneered and looked away. He walked through the sliding glass doors into the VIP lobby. His boots echoed loudly in the empty space. The front desk nurse stood up, her hands shaking. "Sir, I need to see your-" Clinton did not look at her. He slammed a solid black access card onto the scanner. The machine beeped green. He walked straight to the private elevator reserved for the top floor. The metal doors closed. Clinton pulled a small black device from his pocket. He swept it around the elevator walls, checking for listening bugs. Satisfied, he pressed his earpiece. "Boston security is locked down," he said in a low voice. A cold, authoritative male voice replied through the earpiece. "Good." Just one word. Clinton stood a little straighter. The elevator chimed. The doors slid open on the VIP floor. Clinton stepped out. Catherine was walking down the hallway toward him, holding a metal clipboard. The motion-sensor lights flickered on above them. Catherine looked down, raising the clipboard just enough to hide the lower half of her face. Clinton stopped. His eyes narrowed. He stared at the woman in the white coat. Something about the way she walked made the hairs on his arms stand up. He shot his thick arm out, blocking her path. The sudden movement created a rush of cold air. "Why are you in a cleared zone?" Clinton demanded. Catherine forced her feet to stay planted. Her heart was beating so hard she could hear it in her throat. She slowly raised her head. She gave him a look of pure, arrogant disgust. She shoved her ID badge right into his chest. Clinton looked at the name. Dr. Catherine Clarke. He frowned. The suspicion was still heavy in his eyes, but he could not find a crack in her expression. "If your men interfere with my medical equipment again," Catherine said, her French accent thick and dripping with poison, "I will have the police remove you." Clinton blinked. The accent threw him off. The arrogance was entirely wrong. He dropped his arm. "My apologies, Doctor," he said stiffly. He stepped aside. Catherine kept her chin high and walked past him. She did not look back. She turned the corner and pressed her back against the wall. Her shirt was soaked with cold sweat. She peeked around the edge of the drywall. Clinton was standing in front of Cassidy's door, typing a code into the keypad.