Chapter 1 - THE MAN IN THE WRONG CAR
“Your car is still moving.”
Emma froze with one foot on the pavement.
The rideshare sedan was curving toward the hospital entrance, hazard lights blinking.
“Right,” she muttered. “Excellent. I almost added being run over to a very productive evening.”
The stranger behind the wheel looked through the windshield.
“Wait two seconds.”
Emma did.
The approaching car stopped at the curb.
The stranger unlocked his doors.
Emma unplugged the charger and held it up.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And I’m sorry.”
“You said that.”
“I know. I’m repeating it because humiliation has stages.”
That almost earned her the smile she had seen earlier.
Almost.
She stepped out, shut the door carefully, then opened it again.
The man looked back through the mirror.
Emma said, “You should probably lock your doors near hospitals.”
“Why?”
“Apparently exhausted nurses climb into luxury vehicles and issue orders.”
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
She closed the door.
Her real driver waved from the other sedan.
Emma hurried across the curb lane, climbed in, and gave the stranger one last embarrassed glance through the rear window.
The black sedan remained where it was.
Then another man in a dark overcoat approached the driver’s side, opened the rear passenger door, and got inside.
That was the second thing Emma noticed too late.
The stranger had not been waiting for a ride.
He had been the driver.
The expensive car pulled away.
By the time Emma reached her apartment, she had decided the entire incident belonged in the mental category labeled: Things We Never Discuss Again.
She was wrong.
Three days later, a bouquet arrived at the nurses’ station.
Not roses.
Thank God.
White tulips.
The card read:
FOR THE WOMAN WHO MISTOOK MY CAR FOR PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION.
— A.
Emma stared.
Her coworker Jessa leaned over her shoulder.
“Who is A?”
“No one.”
“No one sent you tulips.”
“He’s a stranger.”
“That is considerably more interesting.”
“It is not.”
“Did you meet him at a bar?”
“In a car.”
Jessa’s eyebrows rose.
Emma immediately regretted wording.
“No. Not like that.”
“Please continue.”
“I got into the wrong sedan.”
Jessa listened to the story while trying unsuccessfully not to laugh.
“So,” she said afterward, “mysterious rich man gives you charger, waits for correct ride, then sends flowers.”
“Yes.”
“And you do not know his name.”
“No.”
“Serial killer.”
“Probably.”
“Hot?”
Emma looked at the tulips.
“I was tired.”
“That means yes.”
Emma ignored her.
The flowers stayed in break room because hospital policy did not allow patient-area arrangements with unknown origin.
That should have been the end.
Then the hospital’s new trauma-wing donor tour happened two weeks later.
Emma had forgotten about it until she walked into the fourth-floor conference room carrying medication education folders and saw the man from the car standing beside the hospital chief executive.
Same dark hair.
Same controlled posture.
Different suit.
No steering wheel.
Dr. Bellamy beamed.
“Emma, perfect. I want you to meet one of the lead donors supporting the new emergency expansion.”
The man looked at her.
Recognition appeared in his eyes.
Emma stopped.
Dr. Bellamy continued.
“Mr. Adrian Vale.”
The name meant nothing to Emma for three seconds.
Then Jessa, standing behind her, inhaled sharply.
That was not encouraging.
Adrian held out his hand.
“Ms. Reed.”
She shook it.
“Mr. Vale.”
Dr. Bellamy smiled.
“You know each other?”
Emma said, “I once attempted to hire him as a rideshare driver.”
Silence.
Adrian looked almost amused.
Dr. Bellamy laughed because he assumed she was joking.
Jessa did not.
Later, in the medication room, Jessa grabbed Emma by both arms.
“Adrian Vale.”
“Yes.”
“Adrian Vale.”
“You are repeating it like I should know something.”
Jessa stared.
“Vale Holdings?”
Emma shrugged.
“Shipping. Real estate. Nightclubs. Security. Half the waterfront.”
“Okay.”
“And the other half that never appears in paperwork.”
Emma looked at her.
“What does that mean?”
Jessa lowered her voice.
“My brother works city permits. Vale is not just rich.”
“Define not just rich.”
Jessa whispered:
“Mafia.”
Emma laughed.
Jessa did not.
“Oh.”
There it was again.
The wrong-car feeling.
Facts assembling too slowly.
Emma had ordered a crime boss to take her home.
Then mocked his literal answers.
Then accepted a charger.
Then flowers.
“Are you sure?”
“No one is sure because people who are sure tend to become extremely private.”
“Jessa.”
“I’m serious.”
Emma looked through the glass wall toward conference room.
Adrian listened while an architect explained trauma-bay access.
He did not look dangerous.
That meant nothing.
She had cared for gang members with baby faces and old women who had stabbed husbands with roasting forks.
Danger had poor branding.
After the donor tour, Adrian found Emma near elevator.
“Flowers were inappropriate?”
She looked at him.
“Unexpected.”
“Different.”
“Yes.”
“You left them at work.”
“How do you know?”
His expression changed slightly.
Good.
He had made a mistake.
“I sent them to work.”
“That does not answer.”
“No.”
Emma crossed her arms.
“Do you track what happens to flowers?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“The florist said delivery accepted by station.”
“That was less sinister than my imagination.”
“Your imagination seems active.”
“I work nights.”
The elevator arrived.
Emma stepped in.
Adrian did not.
“Mr. Vale.”
“Yes?”
“Are you in organized crime?”
The doors started closing.
His face did not change.
He reached out and stopped them.
“Direct.”
“I’m tired.”
“I noticed.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No.”
Emma waited.
He said:
“I own legal businesses. I also know people who do illegal things.”
“That sounds like a lawyer wrote it.”
“It would concern my lawyer that I said even that much.”
“Do people fear you?”
“Yes.”
That answer came cleanly.
Emma swallowed.
“Should I?”
Adrian looked at her for a long moment.
“No.”
The doors closed.
Emma stood alone in elevator staring at her reflection.
That should have frightened her more.
Instead, what frightened her was that she believed him.
Three weeks passed.
Adrian did not send more flowers.
Good.
He also did not appear at hospital.
Better.
Then at 2:18 a.m. on a Sunday, Emma’s trauma pager went off.
Multiple vehicle collision.
Four incoming.
She ran.
Ambulance doors opened.
First patient: teenager, conscious.
Second: middle-aged driver, unstable.
Third: security guard with gunshot wound.
Emma’s brain shifted.
Gunshot was not vehicle collision.
“Where did this happen?”
Paramedic answered:
“Lower Wacker. Car hit barrier after shots fired.”
Then fourth stretcher rolled in.
Adrian Vale.
Blood across his white shirt.
Eyes open.
Still.
Too still.
He saw Emma.
For one second the feared man disappeared.
He looked relieved.
“Wrong car,” he murmured.
Emma’s training took over.
“What happened?”
“Apparently,” he breathed, “I should lock my doors.”
She almost laughed.
“Do not make jokes if you’re bleeding.”
“Noted.”
His pulse was fast.
Wound high left shoulder.
Possible chest involvement.
Emma cut his shirt.
Two armed men tried to follow stretcher.
She turned.
“No.”
They stopped.
One stared as if people rarely told him no.
Emma pointed.
“Hospital policy. Weapons out.”
“We’re security.”
“You’re armed men in a trauma bay.”
The taller one looked toward Adrian.
Adrian, pale on stretcher, said:
“Do what she says.”
They left.
Emma looked down at him.
“Thank you.”
“Humiliation has stages.”
She stared.
He remembered.
Then he lost consciousness.
The next hour blurred.
CT.
No major vessel injury.
Bullet passed through shoulder without penetrating his chest.
Lucky.
Too lucky, perhaps.
Emma did not think about that until after he stabilized.
At 4:40 a.m., she found his security chief in hallway.
Tall, Latino, forties, expensive coat.
“Marco Serrano,” he introduced.
“Mr. Vale is stable.”
Marco exhaled.
“Thank you.”
“He needs rest.”
“Yes.”
“And only two visitors.”
“Yes.”
“No guns.”
Marco almost smiled.
“I heard.”
Emma turned away.
“Ms. Reed.”
She stopped.
Marco held out something.
Her phone charger.
The same white cable from Adrian’s sedan.
Emma stared.
“He had it in the car.”
“Why?”
Marco shrugged.
“He said a nurse might steal it again.”
That was ridiculous.
Emma took it.
“Tell him he’s annoying.”
Marco’s smile widened.
“You can tell him yourself.”
“No.”
But she did.
At six, Adrian woke.
Emma was checking his IV.
“Morning.”
He looked at her.
“Did I die?”
“No.”
“Disappointing to several people.”
“Probably.”
He watched her.
“You’re ending shift.”
“How can you tell?”
“You look like the night I met you.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
She adjusted pump.
“Who shot you?”
His eyes cooled.
“Occupational hazard.”
“Legal shipping?”
“Very dangerous industry.”
Emma gave him a look.
Adrian almost smiled.
Then his expression changed.
“Emma.”
First name.
Too familiar.
“What?”
“Do not tell anyone I knew you before tonight.”
She stopped.
“Why?”
“Because whoever shot at my car knew where I would be.”
“So?”
“So I do not know who gave them route.”
Inside job.
“Your people.”
“Maybe.”
Emma’s body went cold.
“And if they know I recognize you?”
“They may assume you heard something.”
“I didn’t.”
“They won’t care.”
She stared.
“You brought danger into my hospital.”
“I was unconscious.”
“Fair.”
He lowered voice.
“Still. Be careful leaving.”
Emma crossed arms.
“I’m not letting your men follow me.”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I’m giving you a driver.”
“No.”
He closed eyes.
“Of course.”
“You do not control me because somebody shot you.”
“I know.”
That surprised her.
He opened eyes.
“Then choose someone you trust to walk you out.”
“I take the train.”
His jaw tightened.
“Emma.”
“No.”
He exhaled through his nose.
“Fine.”
She thought.
Then:
“Jessa walks me to staff garage. Her boyfriend drives us home.”
“Good.”
“Stop sounding relieved.”
“I am relieved.”
There was something almost intimate in honesty.
Emma did not like it.
She finished charting.
Before she left, Adrian said:
“The flowers were not tracking.”
She laughed despite herself.
“I know.”
“I wanted that clear before someone attempts murder again.”
“Very thoughtful.”
Emma reached door.
Then looked back.
“Mr. Vale?”
“Yes?”
“Why were you driving yourself that night?”
He was quiet.
“My driver’s wife went into labor. I had taken our family cardiologist to St. Catherine when he developed chest pain. I was waiting for Marco to bring another car.”
Emma smiled faintly.
“Good answer.”
“It is true.”
She left.
At the employee garage, Jessa waited.
They reached her boyfriend’s car.
Nothing happened.
Emma started to believe Adrian was paranoid.
Then she saw the envelope tucked beneath her windshield wiper.
No name.
Inside was a photograph.
Emma climbing into Adrian’s sedan three weeks earlier.
Taken from across the street.
On back:
HE SHOULD HAVE LET YOU TAKE THE WRONG CAR HOME.
May you like
Emma’s blood went cold.
Someone had been watching from the beginning.
