Chapter 3: The Cold Ward
The antiseptic smell of the psychiatric ward was sharp enough to sting the nostrils. Julian walked down the linoleum-floored corridor behind a nurse wearing teal scrubs who carried a heavy plastic clipboard. Outside Room 104, a security guard sat in a molded plastic chair, nodding once as Julian approached.
"She's coherent," the nurse said, her voice devoid of emotion as she punched a numerical code into the electronic door lock. "No visitors past the thirty-minute mark, Mr. Vance. And if she becomes agitated, you press the call button immediately and step back into the hall."
Julian nodded, pushing the heavy door open.
Rebecca sat upright on a narrow institutional bed covered in a stiff blue blanket. She wore a standard-issue grey cotton gown, her short dark hair unbrushed, falling in soft waves around her pale face. Her wrists rested loosely in her lap, free of restraints, but her eyes were hyper-focused, tracking Julian the second he stepped over the threshold. There was no trace of the frantic rage that had possessed her on the bedroom floor; instead, her expression was one of heavy, exhausted resignation.
"You found the file, didn't you?" Rebecca asked before Julian could even close the door behind him. Her voice was surprisingly steady, carrying a flat, melancholic tone that sent a shiver down his spine.
Julian stopped three feet from the bed, his fists clenched deep inside the pockets of his trench coat. "You lied to me for seven years, Rebecca. Every single day you looked me in the eye and let me raise a child that wasn't mine, while you walked around hiding a bomb under our roof."
Rebecca let out a bitter, humorous huff of air that lacked any real amusement. "I didn't hide a bomb, Julian. I protected a child from a man who would have used her as leverage in a bitter divorce the second his wandering eye found someone younger at the firm."
Julian stepped closer, his jaw tightening. "This isn't about the firm, and it isn't about a divorce! You pulled a knife on our daughter—on Lily—because of some twisted resentment you've been nursing in the dark. How could you threaten her? She looks up to you. She loves you."
"She was never yours to claim absolute ownership over," Rebecca snapped, her eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp intensity that mirrored the night of the attack. But the fire died out almost as quickly as it had ignited, leaving her shoulders slumping forward. She looked down at her bare fingers, twisting an imaginary ring around her left knuckle. "I didn't want to hurt her, Julian. You know I didn't. But when I saw you looking at her graduation portraits last week—when I realized you were starting to piece together the timeline of how she doesn't carry your mother's eyes or your father's chin—I panicked. The secret was slipping through my fingers, and once you know a lie, you start looking for the architect."
"Who is she, Rebecca?" Julian demanded, his voice dropping to a harsh, gravelly whisper. "Whose child is she?"
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Rebecca raised her head, her gaze locking onto his with terrifying clarity. "Ask your business partner, Julian. Ask Marcus whose blood runs through the veins of the little girl sleeping in your guest bedroom right now. He's been waiting for you to ask for years."
***
