Chapter 5 - The Cleaning Shift
The snow had turned into a thick, wet slush that stuck to the brick facades of Elm Street like sour cream.
At eight-fifteen on Friday night, the back entrance of the Northwood Medical Arts Building was dark except for a single yellow bulb over the service door.
Abigail stood in the narrow alley between the building and an auto repair shop, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She was wearing a grey jumpsuit three sizes too big for her—borrowed from Sarah, who was currently sitting in the passenger seat of her brother’s car at the end of the block, keeping watch with a small walkie-talkie.
“You’ve got twenty minutes before the security guard does his round,” Sarah’s voice had buzzed over the radio five minutes ago. “The keycard for the second floor is in the blue bucket under the sink in the utility closet. Don't touch the alarm on the south wall.”
Abigail pushed the brass key into the service lock. It turned with a dry click.
The hallway smelled of floor bleach and cold air. Her boots made no sound on the rubber mats as she crept toward the stairs, her flashlight held low, its beam muffled by a brown paper bag she had wrapped around the lens.
Second floor. Suite 204: Dr. Arthur Harrison, Neurological Associates.
The door was heavy mahogany with frosted glass. Abigail used the keycard Sarah had left in the utility closet. The small light on the electronic lock turned from red to green with a high, electronic beep that made her freeze against the wall for five long seconds.
Nothing moved.
She slipped inside.
The doctor’s inner office was carpeted in dark green wool. A massive walnut desk sat in front of a window overlooking the frozen alley. Behind the desk was a wall of wooden filing cabinets with brass handles.
Abigail moved quickly. She dropped to her knees before the third cabinet, her fingers sliding over the labels: A-D, E-H, I-L.
E-H.
She pulled the drawer. It was locked.
“Damn it,” she whispered.
She stood up and scanned the desk. A brass lamp, a leather blotter, a small glass tray filled with paperclips, and a heavy iron letter opener shaped like a sailfish.
She grabbed the letter opener, shoved the sharp tip into the small gap above the cabinet lock, and leaned her weight into it.
The metal groaned. The wood around the lock splintered with a sound like a dry twig snapping under foot.
The drawer popped open four inches.
Abigail jammed her fingers into the gap and pulled. The hanging folders rattled as she flipped through them: Farnsworth, Faulkner, Fitzgerald.
There were two folders under Fitzgerald.
One was a thin, white paper folder containing standard billing records and blood test results.
The second was a heavy red leather binder, tied with a rubber band.
She opened it.
The first page was a handwritten letter on expensive cream stationery, dated four months ago:
Arthur,
As discussed, the initial payment of fifty thousand has been transferred to the account in Grand Cayman. My father’s presence at the October shareholder meeting must be prevented at all costs. Adjust the dosage of the donepezil accordingly. The confusion must appear natural and progressive.
— E.
Abigail’s breath caught in her throat. She took out her phone, her hands trembling so violently she nearly dropped it on the carpet, and began taking photo after photo of every page—the letters, the bank transfer receipts, the adjusted prescription schedules that proved Dr. Harrison had been intentionally over-medicating Henry to induce synthetic confusion.
Suddenly, a light flashed in the hallway outside the frosted glass door.
Heavy footsteps were coming down the corridor.
“Hey! Who’s in there?” a man’s voice barked.
Abigail jammed the red binder into her jacket, grabbed her phone, and made for the small side door behind the doctor’s desk—the private exit that led to the fire escape.
The main door to the office burst open just as she shoved her shoulder against the fire bar.
“Stop!” a security guard shouted, his flashlight beam catching her pale hair as she burst into the freezing night air.
Abigail didn't look back. She flew down the metal steps of the fire escape, three at a time, her soles slipping on the ice that covered the iron grid.
At the bottom of the stairs, a figure stepped out from the shadows of the alley.
It wasn't the security guard.
It was Edward Fitzgerald.
He was standing beside a running black sedan, his coat collar turned up against the snow, his eyes dark and wide with a strange, wild fury.
“Give me the binder, girl,” Edward said, his voice low and dangerous. He took a step toward her, his hand reaching out like a claw. “You have no idea what you’re touching.”
Abigail backed away until her spine hit the brick wall of the alley.
“It’s over, Edward,” she said, holding the binder behind her back. “I’ve already sent the pictures to your father’s lawyer.”
Edward chuckled—a short, dry sound that had no humor in it. “Do you think a few photos on a teenager’s phone will stand up against thirty corporate attorneys? Give it to me, or you won't make it to the end of this alley.”
He took another step.
Then, from the mouth of the alley, two long beams of white light cut through the snow, blinding them both.
A heavy silver sedan roared into the narrow space, its tires spraying slush against the brick walls, stopping less than three feet from Edward’s knees.
The rear door opened.
Richard Vance stepped out, accompanied by two uniformed Northwood police officers with drawn flashlights.
“Step away from the young lady, Edward,” Vance said, his voice cold enough to freeze the rain. “The Chief of Police is waiting at the station. And I believe Dr. Harrison is already in the back of a cruiser on Elm Street.”
Edward looked from Vance to Abigail, his face collapsing like a house of cards in a high wind. His hand dropped to his side.
Abigail stepped past him, her knees shaking so hard she had to lean against the silver car for support.
She looked inside the open rear window.
Henry Fitzgerald was sitting in the back seat, wrapped in a dark cashmere blanket, holding a steaming metal thermos.
“Did you find the red binder, child?” Henry asked softly.
Abigail pulled the binder from her jacket and held it out to him through the window.
“It was behind the lock,” she said, her breath coming in fast, ragged gasps. “He... he was giving you pills to make you forget.”
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Henry took the red leather binder into his hands. He didn't open it. He simply held it against his chest like an old book he had read long ago and never wanted to see again.
“I didn't forget,” Henry said, looking up at her with clear, bright blue eyes. “I just waited for someone who remembered how to see.”
