Chapter 3 - The Secret in the Ambulance
The ride to the county hospital was a blur of high-speed turns, the screaming wail of the siren bouncing off the closed metal walls of the ambulance, and the sterile, sharp scent of rubbing alcohol and plastic.
Eli lay on the gurney, the oxygen mask still secured over his small face, a slow, steady IV drip taped to the back of his hand. His breathing had stabilized slightly, but he remained deeply unconscious, his tiny body shifting with every bump in the road.
I sat on the narrow bench beside him, my fingers wrapped tightly around his cold, small hand.
The male paramedic—whose nametag read Marcus—was sitting opposite me. He was working with frantic, silent efficiency, checking Eli's vitals every three minutes, his eyes never staying in one place for long. The color had not returned to his face; if anything, he looked even more shaken now that we were away from the house.
"Marcus," I said, my voice barely audible over the roar of the ambulance engine. "You knew him."
Marcus didn't look up from his monitor. His fingers tapped against the plastic casing of the defibrillator unit. "I don't know what you're talking about, ma'am."
"Don't lie to me," I said, a sudden, desperate strength rising in my chest. "I saw your face. When you looked at my brother, you looked like you were looking at a monster. You went white. Ryan recognized you, too. What is going on?"
Marcus swallowed hard, his throat moving convulsively. He glanced toward the small glass window that separated the cabin from the driver's compartment. The driver was focused on the road, the red and blue lights reflecting off the dark asphalt ahead.
Slowly, Marcus reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small, worn leather wallet. He flipped it open, revealing a photograph of a young girl—no older than twelve—with bright, laughing eyes and a mass of dark curls that looked terrifyingly similar to Eli’s.
"This is my sister, Lily," Marcus whispered, his voice cracking. "Seven years ago, she was admitted to the pediatric ICU at Saint Jude’s. She had a traumatic brain injury. Skull fracture. Multiple contusions along her ribs."
My hand tightened around Eli's fingers. "What does that have to do with Ryan?"
"The police report said she fell from a treehouse," Marcus said, his eyes darkening with a fierce, burning anger. "But the neighbor's kid told us a different story. He said a man had been visiting the house next door. A man who liked to 'discipline' the kids when the parents weren't looking. A man who told them that if they ever said a word, he’d come back and finish the job."
"Ryan," I breathed, the word feeling like ice in my veins.
"We couldn't prove it," Marcus said, his voice trembling with a mixture of grief and rage. "The neighbor's kid was too terrified to testify. My sister... Lily never woke up, Hannah. She died three days later. The man who did it was never charged. He disappeared from the county before the grand jury could even convene."
He looked directly into my eyes, his grip on his medical bag tightening again.
"The man who did that to my sister... his name wasn't Ryan Mercer back then. He was using the name Ryan Vance. But I would know that face anywhere. I’ve seen it in my nightmares every night for seven years."
The ambulance took a sharp turn, the tires squealing as we pulled into the bright, concrete bay of the emergency room.
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"Hannah," Marcus said, leaning in close as the back doors of the vehicle were thrown open by the hospital staff. "Do not let your parents take that boy. Do not let them touch his medical files. If they get their hands on the scans, they will hide them. They’ve done it before."
Before I could ask what he meant, a team of doctors and nurses descended upon the ambulance, pulling Eli’s gurney out into the bright, sterile white light of the trauma bay. I was pushed back, my hands empty, the cold wind of the parking lot biting at my tear-stained cheeks as my son was wheeled away through the double doors.
