Chapter 5 - Tracing the Footsteps
Maxwell Sterling sat upright in his hospital bed, staring at the photocopy of the handwritten police report.
Name of Reporter: Emma Hayes. Age: 7. Address: 1412 W. 18th Street, Apt 3B. Guardian: Michael Hayes (Father).
"A child," Maxwell whispered to himself.
"Max, I've already instructed our public relations team to send a suitable gift basket to the family," Vance offered quickly, taking a step toward the bed. "A hundred-dollar gift card to Target and a formal letter of gratitude from the board. That should cover any expectation—"
"A gift basket?" Maxwell interrupted, turning his head slowly to glare at his attorney. "A man who controls four billion dollars in assets suffers a heart attack, is saved from dying in a gutter by a seven-year-old girl, and you send a hundred-dollar gift card?"
"We have to be careful regarding liability, Max!" Vance argued defensive. "If we over-acknowledge the incident, it creates a precedent. It draws media attention to your health, which could plummet our stock price before the Q2 earnings call—"
"Get out, Richard," Maxwell said softly.
"Max—"
"Gideon!" Maxwell called out toward the hallway.
The door swung open instantly, and a tall, lean man in his late fifties with graying temples and an unreadable face stepped into the room. Gideon Vance (no relation to Richard) was Maxwell’s personal head of security—a former military intelligence officer who had been at Maxwell’s side for twenty-two years.
"Sir?" Gideon said, ignoring Richard entirely.
"Take the town car," Maxwell ordered, handing the police report to Gideon. "Find Emma Hayes. Find her father. I want to know everything about them by four o'clock this afternoon. Not what public relations wants me to know—the truth."
"Understood, sir," Gideon said, bowing his head slightly and turning on his heel.
By three-thirty that afternoon, Gideon returned to the hospital suite. He carried a thin leather folder under his arm, which he opened as he stood at the foot of Maxwell’s bed.
"Michael Hayes," Gideon began in his crisp, emotionless voice. "Thirty-six years old. Former structural engineer. Graduated third in his class from Illinois Tech."
Maxwell raised an eyebrow. "An engineer? Why was he listed as a concrete laborer on the report?"
"Six years ago, Mr. Hayes was a junior partner at a medium-sized civil engineering firm," Gideon explained. "His business partner skimmed three million dollars from a municipal bridge project and fled to South America. The firm went bankrupt. Michael took the financial fall to protect his crew's pensions, forfeiting his professional license."
Maxwell listened in silence, his eyes fixed on the file.
"Three years ago," Gideon continued, "his wife, Sarah Hayes, developed an aggressive form of leukemia. Michael worked eighteen-hour days taking any physical labor he could find to pay for her care. She passed away eighteen months later, leaving him with nearly two hundred thousand dollars in lingering medical debt. He lives in a drafty two-bedroom apartment in Pilsen, working night shifts for concrete contractors."
Gideon paused, turning a page.
"And the girl?" Maxwell asked softly.
"Emma. Second grade at St. Jude’s Elementary. She attends an after-school program until six p.m. every day while her father finishes his first shift. On the night she saved your life, Mr. Sterling, she had stopped at Moretti’s Bakery on Oak Street."
Gideon looked up from the file, his calm eyes showing a rare flicker of disgust.
"The manager’s daughter-in-law turned the child away into the freezing snow without food because she was a dollar short for a day-old roll. Eleven minutes later, she opened your car door."
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Maxwell’s hand closed into a tight fist against the white bedsheet, his knuckles turning white.
"Bring me my clothes, Gideon," Maxwell said quietly. "We are going for a drive."
