The Dead Wife's Spectacular Secret Return

Clinton saw Catherine shielding the girl. He immediately shoved his gun back into the holster. He raised both hands in the air, showing his empty palms, and took a slow step forward. Catherine stood up from the wet grass. Her high heels sank into the mud, making her wobble for a second, but she locked her knees and stood perfectly straight. She kept Cassidy tucked tightly behind her legs. "Come here, Cassidy," Clinton ordered. His voice was hard and loud. "You put the entire hospital on lockdown." Cassidy flinched. She grabbed handfuls of Catherine's dirty trench coat and pressed her face against the back of Catherine's legs. Catherine felt the child trembling. A hot wave of anger burned in her chest. "Do not yell at her!" Catherine snapped in her thick French accent. "She is a sick child with a fever, and you are terrifying her!" Clinton ignored her. He stepped closer and reached his thick arm out, grabbing Cassidy's thin wrist to pull her away. Cassidy screamed. "No! I don't want to go back to the white room!" The sound of her daughter's scream tore Catherine's heart in half. Catherine did not think. She swung her arm and slapped Clinton's hand as hard as she could. The smack echoed loudly across the empty courtyard. A bright red handprint instantly appeared on the back of Clinton's thick hand. Clinton stared at his hand, stunned. He looked up at the Dean of Medicine. She looked like a wild animal protecting its young. Catherine yanked Cassidy fully behind her back. "If you touch my patient again, I will have you arrested for assault," she hissed. Clinton ground his teeth together. The muscle in his jaw ticked. He leaned in close to Catherine. "Do not interfere with Sinclair family business, Doctor." "While she is on St. Jude property, her safety is my business," Catherine fired back, not breaking eye contact. Suddenly, the weight against Catherine's legs vanished. Cassidy's eyes rolled back. The fever and the panic finally broke her. She collapsed onto the grass like a broken doll. "Cassidy!" Catherine screamed. She dropped to her knees. She pressed two fingers against the girl's neck to check her pulse, then gently pulled back her eyelids. Her hands moved with frantic precision. Clinton saw the sheer panic in the doctor's eyes. He backed off. He pressed his radio. "Bring a stretcher to the courtyard doors. Now." He bent down and slid his arms under Cassidy to pick her up. Catherine grabbed his forearms. She held on tight. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and full of absolute despair. It was the look of a mother having her child ripped away. Clinton froze. The breath caught in his throat. Five years ago, in a cold courtroom, Helen Sinclair had looked at him with those exact same eyes. A cold sweat broke out on the back of Clinton's neck. He shook his head, trying to clear the impossible thought. "I'm just taking her to the doctors," he said softly. "I won't hurt her." Catherine's medical training kicked in. She knew the girl needed IV fluids immediately. Her fingers slowly uncurled from Clinton's arms. She let go. Clinton lifted the girl and ran toward the glass doors. Catherine stayed on her knees in the mud. Her hands were empty. Her chest ached so badly she could barely breathe. Up on the second floor, behind the glass wall of the connecting bridge, Martha stood frozen. She had been watching the whole thing. When Catherine fell to her knees and looked up at Clinton, the sunlight hit her face perfectly. Martha dropped the clean towels she was holding. She clamped both hands over her mouth to stop herself from screaming. She stared at the woman on the grass. The way she held her shoulders, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear as she stood up. It was her. Martha backed away from the glass. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Helen was alive. The Madam had come back. Down in the courtyard, Catherine wiped the mud from her hands. Her despair vanished, replaced by a cold, hard determination. She turned and walked quickly after Clinton.