Chapter 3
The basement level of Lumina Medical Center smelled faintly of antiseptic, floor wax, and old copper. It was a sterile, windowless labyrinth where the passage of time was marked only by the hum of ventilation systems and the rhythmic beeping of cardiac monitors filtering through heavy, soundproofed doors.
Arthur swiped his security badge against the heavy magnetic lock of Surgical Suite B. The green light flashed, and the thick door slid open with a pneumatic hiss. The room was bathed in the harsh, glare-free illumination of overhead surgical lights. In the center of the room, a patient lay draped in blue sterile sheets, their chest open under the precise movements of a surgical team.
At the head of the table stood Dr. Thomas Vance, Arthur’s younger brother, working in quiet tandem with the scrub nurse. Thomas looked up as the door closed behind Arthur, his eyes tired and bloodshot behind his protective face shield.
"Arthur? You’re supposed to be on a flight to Chicago," Thomas said, his voice muffled by his mask. "What are you doing down here in scrubs? You’re not scrubbed in."
Arthur ripped off his suit jacket, tossing it carelessly onto a metal side table, and reached for a sterile gown hanging on the rack by the sink. "I missed my flight, Thomas. We need to talk."
"Now? Are you insane?" Thomas gestured toward the open chest cavity with a micro-forceps. "We are in the middle of a triple bypass. Mr. Henderson’s heart has been stopped for twenty minutes. This is not the time for an operational emergency, unless your emergency involves a defibrillator."
"It’s Rachel," Arthur said, stepping up to the scrub sink and turning the handles with his elbows. The hot water surged out, scalding his skin. "I saw her."
Thomas paused, his hand hovering over the patient's chest. The scrub nurse stared straight ahead, strictly adhering to the unspoken rule of pretending not to hear confidential hospital drama. "That’s impossible," Thomas said quietly, his voice dropping. "Rachel is scheduled in Suite D for an aortic dissection. She’s been in there since noon. I signed her checklist myself."
"She wasn't in Suite D," Arthur snapped, his voice sharp enough to draw a warning glance from the circulating nurse near the supply cart. "She was standing on the glass balcony in the main atrium. She looked right at me, Thomas. She called me out."
"That makes zero sense," Thomas argued, shaking his head. "If she’s down here operating, and you saw her up there, then either you’re having a stress-induced hallucination from the merger negotiations, or someone is playing a very elaborate, very sick joke on both of us."
Arthur began scrubbing his hands, the coarse brush scraping harshly against his skin until it turned a deep, angry red. "It wasn't a hallucination. She called my phone while she was looking down at me. She told me to enjoy whatever is coming next."
"Go check Suite D," Thomas said after a tense beat of silence, handing his instrument to the nurse. "Take a security guard. If Rachel is scrubbed in at her table, then whatever you saw upstairs is a ghost or an impostor. But if her table is empty... then we have a much bigger problem than a missed flight to Chicago."
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Arthur dried his hands on a sterile towel, tossed it into the bin, and turned back toward the heavy doors. The cold dread in his stomach had hardened into a knot of absolute certainty. Rachel was never one for empty threats.
***
