The House on Prospect Hill
The winter wind was howling off the Mississippi River when Alexander’s car crested the steep, cobblestone slope of Prospect Hill in Galena.
Red and blue emergency lights swept across the snow-covered facade of a charming, weathered 1920s craftsman bungalow. Two paramedics from the Jo Daviess County emergency services were rolling a gurney down the front porch ramp, bagging an unconscious figure wrapped in silver thermal blankets and a high-flow oxygen mask.
Alexander killed the engine, leaped from the car, and bolted up the stone pathway.
"Sir, stay back!" a local police deputy shouted, holding up a palm.
"I’m Alexander Vance. I’m the one who dispatched the private air-evac coordination from Chicago," Alexander barked, his eyes locked on the gurney.
Beneath the plastic mask, Sloane’s face was ashen, her cheekbones hollow, her blonde hair damp with sweat. She looked fragile in her simple white sleeveless nightgown—a ghost of the vibrant, unstoppable visionary he remembered.
"She’s in severe respiratory distress and hypotensive shock," the lead paramedic yelled over the engine roar. "We’re transferring her directly to MercyOne in Dubuque for immediate intubation and cardiac stabilization."
Alexander watched the ambulance doors slam shut. Before he could follow, a faint sound from the open front porch caught his attention.
Standing in the drafty doorway, illuminated by the porch lantern, were two little girls.
They were wearing matching vintage white cotton nightgowns that reached their bare feet. They had light brown hair cut into soft bangs, fair skin, and large, luminous hazel eyes rimmed with red tears. The girl on the left was clutching Alexander’s black smartphone with both hands against her chest; the girl on the right was holding a worn stuffed rabbit, her knuckles white.
When the girl on the left looked up at Alexander, her breath caught.
Alexander froze on the bottom step of the porch.
He didn't need a medical chart or a paternity test. Looking at those two small faces was like looking into an antique mirror of his own childhood photographs: his sharp jawline, his grandmother's hazel eyes, the distinct arch of his brow, blended seamlessly with Sloane’s determined mouth.
"Are you the architect?" the girl with the phone whispered.
May you like
Alexander slowly climbed the wooden steps, dropping down to one knee on the cold porch planks so he was at their exact eye level. He felt a sudden, profound weight settle upon his shoulders—a realization so vast and staggering it wiped away every corporate victory he had ever achieved.
"Yes," Alexander said, his voice softer than he had ever known it to be. "I’m Alexander. And your mommy is going to be alright. I’m going to make sure of it."
