Chapter 4 - THE THRIFT STORE PARKING LOT AND THE SHADOW IN THE REARVIEW
My heart was beating so hard I could hear the blood rushing through my ears like a freight train. I squeezed the thick manila folders flat against my ribs under my heavy winter coat, my fingers digging into the paper until the cardboard creaked.
"Officer Ryan," I said, forcing my voice into the neutral, clinical register I used when dealing with belligerent psychiatric patients in the ER. "You need to step out of the way. I am taking these files to the State Highway Patrol Internal Affairs division."
Ryan laughed—a short, quiet sound that bounced off the steel lockers.
"The Highway Patrol?" Ryan took another step forward, closing the distance between us to less than eight feet. "Clara, who do you think runs the regional dispatch center? Who do you think signs the warrant requests for this county? You think some state trooper in Columbus is going to take the word of an ER clerk over a decorated sheriff's deputy?"
He reached out his right hand, his palm open, gesturing toward my coat.
"Give me the box, Clara. We can handle this quietly. Bryan just wants his family back. Maddie has been having a hard time since the birth. You know how postpartum depression gets. Women imagine things. They get confused."
"She didn't imagine five broken ribs!" I yelled, the rage finally breaking through my fear. "She didn't imagine thumbprints crushed into an infant's chest!"
Ryan’s polite smile vanished in an instant. His pale eyes went flat, cold, and dead.
"Hand over the box," he repeated, his tone dropping an octave. "Or I place you under arrest right now for felony commercial burglary and tampering with law enforcement records. You'll spend the next forty-eight hours in county jail while Bryan takes his daughter home."
He reached for his handcuffs.
In that split second, ten years of ER emergency instincts took over.
I didn't try to push past him. I grabbed the heavy black steel fireproof box from the wooden bench with both hands, swung it with all the force in my shoulders, and slammed the corner of the metal casing directly into Ryan's chest.
The heavy steel hit his sternum with a loud CRACK.
Ryan let out a sharp, breathless gasp, stumbling backward into the steel lockers across the aisle. His elbow struck a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall, sending it clattering to the concrete floor with a deafening bang.
I didn't wait to see if he was down.
I bolted past him, my winter boots slipping on the polished concrete, threw open the heavy emergency exit door at the end of the corridor, and burst out into the torrential rain falling on the parking lot.
"Stop!" Ryan’s voice echoed behind me, laced with pain and rage.
I didn't look back. I slammed into the driver's seat of my SUV, shoved the key into the ignition, threw the transmission into reverse, and backed out of the parking space so fast the tires shrieked against the wet pavement.
As I tore out of the substation driveway onto the main road, I saw Ryan stumbling out of the side door, holding his chest with one hand, pulling his radio up to his mouth with the other.
He wasn't calling an ambulance. He was calling Carter.
I drove frantically through the back roads of Hamilton Township, my hands shaking so violently on the steering wheel that the car drifted across the lane lines. My GPS map showed green, but I knew I couldn't go home. I couldn't go back to the hospital. And I certainly couldn't drive straight to a local police station.
My phone, resting in the cup holder, began to ring.
The screen displayed: MARK - CELL.
I swiped the bar and put it on speaker, shouting over the sound of the rain slamming against the windshield. "Mark! Are you okay? Is Mia okay?"
"Clara!" Mark's voice came through the speaker, strained, hushed, panicked. "Where are you? Carter just left the hospital room!"
"What do you mean he left?"
"Two county deputies showed up at the room five minutes ago," Mark rasped, I could hear him walking quickly down a tiled hallway. "They told Dr. Thorne that the county prosecutor had issued an emergency protective order transferring temporary custody of Mia to the father due to 'maternal instability.' They're discharging her right now, Clara! They have a baby carrier!"
"Don't let them leave!" I screamed.
"I tried!" Mark yelled back, his voice breaking. "One of the deputies pushed me against the wall and threatened to arrest me for obstruction! Clara, Carter took Mia out through the service elevator! He’s putting her in his personal truck in the parking garage right now!"
"Where is Maddie?"
"She’s with me," Mark said. "She’s hyperventilating. Clara, what did you find in that locker?"
I looked at the thick manila files sitting on the passenger seat beside me—the notarized false affidavits, the sealed internal affairs records of prior violence, the names of the officers who had signed off on the cover-ups.
"I found everything," I said, my teeth clenched tight. "Mark, listen to me very carefully. Take Maddie, get into your car, and drive straight to the Ohio Attorney General’s Special Investigations Unit on East Broad Street. Do not stop for traffic lights. Do not talk to any local cops. I will meet you there in twenty minutes."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to make sure Carter doesn't get out of that parking garage," I said, hanging up the phone.
I slammed my foot down on the accelerator, turning the SUV sharply onto the highway ramp heading back toward downtown Columbus.
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Through my rearview mirror, three miles back through the blinding gray curtain of rain, I saw a pair of high-mounted halogen headlights cut through the fog.
A dark blue county sheriff cruiser had just pulled onto the highway behind me.
