The Dead Wife's Spectacular Secret Return

The heavy tires of the black Lincoln Navigator crushed the dry autumn leaves against the pavement. The SUV came to a harsh stop outside the main entrance of St. Jude Medical Center.

A valet in a red uniform rushed forward and pulled the door handle. It did not budge. The internal lock held firm.

Inside the quiet cabin, Catherine Clarke stared at the frosted glass of the hospital doors. Her lungs felt tight, as if someone had wrapped a leather belt around her chest and pulled it to the last notch. She pressed her thumb hard against the knuckle of her index finger, digging the nail in until a sharp pain grounded her.

She shoved the heavy door open. The biting Boston wind hit her face, smelling of exhaust fumes and damp earth. It was the smell of the city she had run away from.

Catherine stepped onto the beige tiles of the emergency drop-off zone. Her black heels clicked sharply against the ground.

A blaring siren drowned out the sound of her footsteps.

Two paramedics sprinted past her, pushing a blood-soaked stretcher. The wheels hit a puddle of muddy water, sending a spray of dirty liquid straight toward her beige trench coat.

Catherine shifted her weight and took a precise step back. The mud missed her by an inch.

Her eyes locked onto the patient on the stretcher. Bright red blood pulsed from a wound on the man's neck, shooting upward in a steady, terrifying rhythm.

The ER doctor on duty rushed to the stretcher. He grabbed a wad of gauze and slammed it against the neck, but the arterial pressure was immense. The gauze was instantly soaked, slipping on the slick blood as he struggled to locate the exact point of the rupture in the chaotic pulsing. Another spray of red hit the screen of the defibrillator nearby.

Catherine pulled her arms out of her trench coat and tossed it backward. The valet caught it.

She crossed the yellow emergency line.

"Ma'am, you can't be back here!" a charge nurse yelled, stepping in front of her with her arms out.

Catherine did not stop. She locked eyes with the nurse. Her stare was dead and freezing cold. The nurse froze, her arms dropping slightly.

Catherine stepped around her and reached the operating table. She snatched the hemostat right out of the ER doctor's trembling hand.

She did not hesitate. She pushed her bare fingers into the torn, slippery flesh of the neck wound. She found the pulsing artery by touch, clamped the hemostat down hard, and locked it.

The bleeding stopped instantly.

The ER doctor stared at her, his mouth hanging open. "Who the hell are you?" he stammered.

"You are losing the angle because the pressure is blinding the field," Catherine said. Her voice was flat and carried a distinct, clipped French accent. "Clamp the proximal end first before he bleeds out."

Eleanor Thorne, an administrative assistant, pushed through the crowd of stunned nurses. She was hugging a tablet to her chest and breathing hard. She saw Catherine standing over the bloodied table.

Catherine handed the hemostat back to the doctor. She took a sterile towel from a tray and slowly wiped the thick blood from her fingers.

"Everyone," Eleanor said, her voice squeaking. "This is Dr. Clarke. The new Dean of Medicine. From Europe."

The air in the trauma bay vanished. The medical staff stood completely still.

Catherine tossed the bloody towel into a red biohazard bin. She looked at the silent room.

"I want the head of the ER in my office in ten minutes," Catherine said.

She turned and walked toward the private elevators. Eleanor jogged to keep up with her, quickly retrieving the beige trench coat from the valet and draping it securely over her own arm as she followed. The elevator doors slid shut, cutting off the noise of the emergency room.

The elevator chimed and opened on the top floor. Catherine stepped out. She looked at the oil paintings of past deans lining the walls. Her eyes stopped for a fraction of a second on a blank space near the end, then moved on.

Eleanor pushed open the heavy mahogany double doors. "This is your office, Dr. Clarke. You have a great view of the Boston skyline."

Catherine walked straight to the massive floor-to-ceiling window. She looked down at the city. Her jaw was locked so tight her teeth ached.

Eleanor stood by the desk and read from her tablet. "Here is your schedule. Also, I should mention the VIP wing. We have a very special patient staying with us. The security is extremely tight."

Catherine's finger stopped moving on the edge of the desk. The sharp edge of the wood dug into her skin, leaving a white line.

"What is the patient's last name?" Catherine asked. She kept her voice perfectly level.

Eleanor lowered her voice to a whisper. "Sinclair. The Sinclair family. Their security team treats this hospital like a military base."

Catherine's heart slammed against her ribs. It beat so fast it made her dizzy.

She closed the file folder on her desk. "Cancel all my non-essential meetings for the morning."

Eleanor looked confused. "But the board members are waiting to meet you."

Catherine raised a hand, stopping her. "I need to review the financial reports. Now. Please leave."

Eleanor nodded quickly and hurried out of the room.

Catherine waited. She heard the heavy wooden door shut. She heard the metal lock click into place.

The mask shattered.

Catherine slumped against the edge of the desk. She gasped for air, her chest heaving. Her legs felt like water.

She stumbled around the desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely grip the handle. She reached into a hidden compartment at the very back.

Her fingers found the cold metal of an old silver pocket watch.

She pulled it out and pressed the latch. The cover popped open. Inside was a faded, yellowed photograph of a newborn baby.

Catherine traced the baby's cheek with her trembling thumb. A hot tear fell from her eye and hit the glass of the watch face. It blurred the baby's smile.

On the desk, the red light of the internal VIP security phone began to flash. A loud, piercing ring shattered the silence of the office. Catherine jumped, snapping the watch shut.

Catherine stared at the flashing red light on the desk. The ringing was loud enough to make her ears ring.

She shoved the silver pocket watch back into the hidden compartment of the drawer and slammed it shut. She took a deep breath, forcing the air down into her tight lungs. She smoothed the front of her shirt and picked up the receiver.

"Dean Clarke speaking," she said. Her voice was ice.

Static crackled through the phone. Then, a deep, rough male voice spoke. "Clear the VIP hallway. Now."

Catherine gripped the phone tighter. "Excuse me? I am the Dean of this hospital. Public medical resources will not be restricted for private security."

A low chuckle came through the speaker. "This is Clinton Barlow. I handle security for the Sinclair family. You will clear the hallway, Dean Clarke. That is not a request."

Catherine's stomach dropped. The name hit her like a physical blow. Her fingers turned white around the plastic receiver. She pressed her lips together to stop them from trembling. She did not say a word. She placed the phone gently back on the base, cutting the line.

She stood up, walked to the window, and looked down through the blinds at the private driveway below.

Three black Chevrolet Suburbans roared into the hospital's private entrance. The tires squealed against the pavement.

Down in the VIP lobby, Dr. Evan Reed was holding a paper coffee cup. He jumped when the SUVs stopped. Hot coffee splashed over the rim and burned his hand.

Eleanor pulled him behind a marble pillar.

The door of the middle SUV opened. Clinton Barlow stepped out. He wore a black tactical suit. His heavy boots hit the ground with a dull thud.

The faint scar on Clinton's cheek caught the gray Boston light. His sharp eyes scanned the ceiling, locking onto every security camera in the area.

Five armed guards poured out of the other vehicles. They formed a human wall between the cars and the glass doors, pushing back a few confused patients.

"Who do these rich guys think they are?" Evan whispered, rubbing his burned hand.

Eleanor slapped her hand over his mouth. "Shut up, Evan. That's the Sinclair family's chief of security. He's dangerous."

Clinton stopped walking. He turned his head slowly and stared directly at the pillar where Evan and Eleanor were hiding. His eyes were like knives.

Evan stopped breathing. He pressed his back flat against the cold marble.

Clinton sneered and looked away. He walked through the sliding glass doors into the VIP lobby. His boots echoed loudly in the empty space.

The front desk nurse stood up, her hands shaking. "Sir, I need to see your-"

Clinton did not look at her. He slammed a solid black access card onto the scanner. The machine beeped green.

He walked straight to the private elevator reserved for the top floor.

The metal doors closed. Clinton pulled a small black device from his pocket. He swept it around the elevator walls, checking for listening bugs.

Satisfied, he pressed his earpiece. "Boston security is locked down," he said in a low voice.

A cold, authoritative male voice replied through the earpiece. "Good."

Just one word. Clinton stood a little straighter.

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open on the VIP floor.

Clinton stepped out.

Catherine was walking down the hallway toward him, holding a metal clipboard.

The motion-sensor lights flickered on above them. Catherine looked down, raising the clipboard just enough to hide the lower half of her face.

Clinton stopped. His eyes narrowed. He stared at the woman in the white coat. Something about the way she walked made the hairs on his arms stand up.

He shot his thick arm out, blocking her path. The sudden movement created a rush of cold air.

"Why are you in a cleared zone?" Clinton demanded.

Catherine forced her feet to stay planted. Her heart was beating so hard she could hear it in her throat. She slowly raised her head. She gave him a look of pure, arrogant disgust. She shoved her ID badge right into his chest.

Clinton looked at the name. Dr. Catherine Clarke. He frowned. The suspicion was still heavy in his eyes, but he could not find a crack in her expression.

"If your men interfere with my medical equipment again," Catherine said, her French accent thick and dripping with poison, "I will have the police remove you."

Clinton blinked. The accent threw him off. The arrogance was entirely wrong. He dropped his arm.

"My apologies, Doctor," he said stiffly. He stepped aside.

Catherine kept her chin high and walked past him. She did not look back.

She turned the corner and pressed her back against the wall. Her shirt was soaked with cold sweat. She peeked around the edge of the drywall.

Clinton was standing in front of Cassidy's door, typing a code into the keypad.

The heavy door hissed as the pressure seal broke. Clinton pushed it open and stepped into the VIP suite.

The room looked like a war zone. Expensive toys were scattered across the floor. The screen of a tablet was shattered into pieces near the sofa.

Cassidy Sinclair stood on the wide windowsill. She was seven years old, wearing a hospital gown that was too big for her. Her bare feet gripped the marble edge. She held a heavy glass vase in her small hands, aiming it at the two nurses standing near the bed.

The nurses looked terrified. One held a tray with cold food. The other held a small cup of pills.

Clinton waved his hand. The nurses quickly left the room, closing the door behind them.

Clinton unbuttoned his suit jacket. He unclipped his holster and placed his gun inside the wall safe near the door. The metal locked with a loud click.

He walked toward the window. His heavy boots crushed the broken glass of the tablet. It made a terrible grinding sound.

Cassidy raised the vase higher. Her knuckles were white. She bit her lower lip so hard it looked like it might bleed.

Clinton did not stop. He pulled a chair to the center of the room and sat down. He spread his legs and rested his elbows on his knees.

"Jumping from the second floor won't kill you," Clinton said, his voice flat. "It will just break both your legs. Then you'll be stuck in that bed for months."

Cassidy froze. The threat confused her. The anger drained out of her face, replaced by a sudden rush of tears. Her lower lip trembled.

Clinton sighed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a squashed caramel pop. The cheap plastic wrapper was wrinkled and faded.

He tossed it onto the carpet. "Take your pills, and you get the garbage candy your nutritionist hates."

Cassidy stared at the candy. She swallowed hard. She looked at the vase in her hands, then back at the candy.

She slammed the vase down onto the sofa cushions. She jumped off the windowsill. Her bare feet hit the floor with a soft thud.

Clinton stood up fast. He grabbed her around the waist before she could step on the broken glass. He lifted her easily and dropped her onto the center of the hospital bed.

Cassidy snatched the plastic cup of pills from the bedside table. She threw them into her mouth and swallowed them dry. She started coughing violently, her face turning red.

Clinton patted her back. His hand was huge and rough, but the pats were gentle. He ripped the wrapper off the caramel pop and shoved it into her mouth.

The coughing stopped. The sweet taste of caramel filled her mouth. Cassidy's tense shoulders dropped. She leaned back against the pillows.

Clinton looked at her pale face. Her eyes looked exactly like Helen's. A sharp ache twisted in his chest.

"Am I going to be locked in this white box forever?" Cassidy asked around the candy. Her voice was small and broken.

Clinton looked away. He bent down and started picking up the broken pieces of the tablet. He didn't want her to see his face. While his eyes were averted, Cassidy's small hand darted out. Her fingers closed around a sharp, sturdy metal screw attached to a piece of the shattered casing. She quickly hid it under her thigh, her heart pounding against her ribs.

Cassidy leaned over the edge of the bed. She grabbed the back of Clinton's shirt. She pulled it hard.

"When is my dad coming?" she asked.

Clinton's hand stopped moving. A sharp piece of glass sliced deep into his index finger. Blood welled up instantly, dripping onto the carpet.

He grabbed a tissue from the table and wrapped it tight around his finger.

"Mr. Sinclair is in Europe," Clinton said. His voice was completely empty of emotion. "He is handling an important merger."

The light in Cassidy's eyes died. She let go of his shirt. She rolled over, turning her back to him, and pulled the blanket over her head.

Clinton stared at the small lump under the covers. There was nothing he could say. He threw the bloody tissue and the glass into the trash.

The radio on his belt beeped. A red light flashed. A guard's voice came through the speaker. "Sir, emergency call from Europe. You need to take this on a secure line."

Clinton walked to the bed. He pulled the metal guardrails up. They locked into place with a loud clack. It sounded exactly like a cage closing.

He walked to the door and looked back at the bed. He hit the dimmer switch on the wall, dropping the room into shadows.

He stepped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut. The lock engaged.

A guard handed him a black encrypted phone. Clinton looked at the caller ID. His jaw tightened.

He cursed under his breath and walked quickly toward the fire stairwell at the end of the hall.

He did not see Catherine standing in the dark alcove near the ice machine, watching his every move.