Chapter 3 - Three Tiny Hearts
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I grabbed Vanessa’s arm, my grip tightening involuntarily. "Who did you see?"
"I thought she was a nurse!" Vanessa pleaded, her voice trembling. "She was wearing standard blue scrubs and a surgical mask. She was carrying a silver service tray with a covered tea cup."
"What did she look like?"
"Dark hair, mid-thirties, average height. I didn't see an ID badge on her chest. I didn't think twice about it because VIP rooms get private catering all the time!"
My mind raced back to two hours before delivery. Claire had complained of a dry throat and mentioned she would trade half my company for a warm cup of chamomile tea. I had laughed, kissed her forehead, and stepped out into the hall to take an urgent phone call from our finance team.
When I returned, an empty porcelain cup was sitting on her bedside table.
I had left her alone. I had walked away for a work call, leaving the door wide open for an assassin.
"Mr. Sloane?"
I turned to see a female police detective walking toward us, her leather jacket unbuttoned, showing a golden shield clipped to her belt. Her tag read Det. Elena Ruiz.
"I'm leading the primary investigation," Ruiz said briskly. "The hospital administrator flagged this as a potential attempted homicide."
"It's not potential," I growled. "Find whoever brought that tea."
"We are reviewing every frame of security footage," Ruiz said calmly, unfazed by my anger. "In the meantime, I need you to stay calm. Before I question you, you should see your children."
I left Vanessa standing in the hall and followed Detective Ruiz down the quiet corridor to the neonatal intensive care unit.
Through the thick observation glass, I saw three tiny acrylic incubators lined up side by side. Three infants—Noah, Elliot, and Grace—were wrapped in pastel blankets, small monitors attached to their tiny feet.
Noah, the eldest by three minutes, stretched his tiny arm in his sleep. Grace turned her head toward the glass, her tiny dark eyes fluttering open for a brief second.
Standing near the edge of the glass was my father, Isaiah Sloane. He looked older than his sixty-five years, his hands—rough and calloused from a lifetime of working as an auto mechanic—resting against the glass.
"They look just like you did," Isaiah whispered as I walked up beside him. "Small, but stubborn."
"Dad," I choked out, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Someone tried to kill her."
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My father didn't look at me. He kept his eyes locked on the newborn triplets, his jaw clenched tightly.
"I know," Isaiah said softly. "And I have a terrible feeling I know why."
