Chapter 11 ICU Confession
# Chapter 11: ICU Confession
Elliot and I found temporary sanctuary in a high-security apartment I'd established under yet another identity—Emma Chen, investment banker with an offshore account and a taste for exclusive properties. The building offered private elevator access, 24-hour security, and most importantly, anonymity for its wealthy tenants who valued discretion above all else.
"We should be safe here for now," I told Elliot as we entered the minimalist space with its panoramic views of Central Park. "They won't look for us together."
Elliot moved to the window, staring out at the city with an expression I couldn't quite read. After seven years of virtual imprisonment in the penthouse, this sudden freedom seemed to both exhilarate and terrify him.
"You didn't have to come with me," I said, setting down the small bag he'd hastily packed. "That wasn't part of our plan."
He turned to face me, reaching for the notebook he carried everywhere:
*Couldn't stay after speaking. They would have locked me away.*
The realization hit me—his single spoken word in Albert's office had burned his cover completely. After years of selective mutism, that simple "No" had revealed his deception. There could be no going back.
"What made you speak?" I asked. "After all this time?"
He wrote carefully: *Someone had to stand with you. Like I should have done before.*
The sentiment touched something in me I'd thought long dead—a capacity for connection I'd deliberately frozen when I became Claire Fontaine. I pushed the feeling away, reminding myself that emotions were luxuries I couldn't afford.
"We need to move quickly," I said, switching to practical matters. "They'll regroup, develop a strategy. Winton especially—he's dangerous when cornered."
Elliot nodded, writing: *What's our next move?*
I opened my laptop, pulling up the files I'd collected. "We expose them systematically. First the video, then Winton's files on the other victims, then the financial records showing hush money payments. A coordinated media campaign that builds day by day."
He considered this, then wrote: *Too slow. They'll counter each release. Need overwhelming force.*
"What do you suggest?"
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*Release everything at once. During father's investor conference next week. Maximum damage.*
I smiled despite myself. The boy had a talent for strategic thinking. "That could work. But we need more evidence to make it irrefutable."
Elliot hesitated, then wrote something that made my heart skip: *I know where the bodies are buried. Literally.*
Before I could question this cryptic statement, my secure phone rang—a burner I'd given to only one person. I answered cautiously.
"Ms. Fontaine? It's Dr. Mercer from Manhattan General. I'm calling about your brother."
My confusion must have shown because Elliot quickly scribbled: *Had to give them a name. Hospital security cameras.*
I recovered quickly. "Yes, doctor. How is he?"
"Stable, but I'm concerned about his test results. Could you come in? There are some decisions that need to be made."
"Of course. I'll be there within the hour."
After hanging up, I turned to Elliot questioningly. He wrote: *Needed hospital records access. Faked seizure in lobby. They admitted me for tests.*
"That was incredibly risky," I admonished. "What if they recognized you?"
*Used fake ID. Told them I was having visions about Albert's victims. They think I'm schizophrenic.*
I stared at him, torn between admiration and concern. "Why would you do that?"
*Medical records system links to police database. Can access evidence from old cases.*
His resourcefulness was startling. While I'd spent years planning my revenge from outside the system, Elliot had been finding ways to undermine it from within.
"We'll go together," I decided. "But we'll need disguises. The Alberts have likely alerted hospitals to watch for us."
An hour later, I entered Manhattan General as Katherine Chen—dark-haired, glasses-wearing sister of patient Michael Chen. Security barely glanced at my forged ID, and we were soon directed to the psychiatric observation unit where "Michael" had been admitted.
Dr. Mercer met us outside the room—a tired-looking woman in her fifties with kind eyes and a perpetual frown. "Ms. Chen, thank you for coming. Your brother's condition is puzzling us. The seizure appears to have been genuine, but the brain scans show unusual activity patterns."
"He's had these episodes before," I lied smoothly. "Our family doctor in Boston has been treating him for years."
"I see. And the... visions he described? About Albert Friedrich and something buried at his estate?"
I feigned embarrassment. "Michael fixates on news stories sometimes. Mr. Friedrich was probably on TV recently."
She nodded sympathetically. "We'd like to keep him overnight for observation, if that's alright with you."
"Of course," I agreed, seeing the opportunity this presented. "May I see him now?"
Inside the small private room, Elliot lay in a hospital bed, monitoring equipment beeping steadily beside him. When the door closed behind Dr. Mercer, he sat up immediately, reaching for the notebook he'd hidden under his pillow.
*Got access. Found police reports from 2009—missing person case. Woman named Madeline Pierce.*
I frowned. "Pierce? As in Winton Pierce?"
He nodded vigorously, writing: *His wife. Reported missing by housekeeper. Case went cold.*
"I never knew Winton was married," I murmured. In all my research, I'd found no mention of a wife.
*Records sealed by judicial order. Guess who signed the order?*
"Albert," I answered, the pieces starting to connect. "So Winton's wife disappeared, and Albert helped bury the investigation. That's significant leverage, but not directly related to our case."
Elliot shook his head impatiently, writing: *There's more. Madeline Pierce was investigating donations to Albert's foundation. Specifically, payments from shell companies operating in areas with high rates of human trafficking.*
My blood ran cold. "Are you suggesting Albert was involved in trafficking?"
*Not directly. Using foundation as money laundering operation. Madeline was foundation accountant.*
The implications were staggering. If Albert's charitable foundation was being used to launder money from human trafficking operations, and Winton's wife had discovered it...
"Do you think they killed her?" I asked quietly.
Instead of writing, Elliot reached for the hospital tablet he'd somehow acquired, pulling up a police evidence photo. It showed a woman's diamond ring, distinctive in its art deco design.
*Found in Albert's Hamptons property during unrelated search. Police never connected it to Madeline.*
"How do you know it's hers?"
He swiped to another image—a society page photo showing a younger Winton with a beautiful dark-haired woman, the same distinctive ring visible on her left hand.
"My God," I whispered. "This goes deeper than we thought."
Elliot's eyes met mine, deadly serious as he wrote: *Not just about us anymore. Bigger evil.*
He was right. What had begun as my personal vendetta was expanding into something far larger—a potential criminal conspiracy involving money laundering, trafficking, and possibly murder. The Alberts weren't just entitled abusers; they were potentially dangerous criminals.
A knock at the door interrupted us. Elliot quickly hid the tablet as a nurse entered to check his vitals.
"How are we feeling, Mr. Chen?" she asked cheerfully.
Elliot resumed his role as the troubled psychiatric patient, staring vacantly at the ceiling. I played my part as the concerned sister, asking appropriate questions about medication and prognosis.
When we were alone again, Elliot wrote urgently: *Need to get to ICU. Patient there—former Albert employee. Terminal cancer.*
"Who?"
*Edward Kwan. Former security chief. Knows where Madeline is buried.*
"How do you know this?"
*Overheard conversation years ago. Kwan talking to Winton about "the beach house incident." Winton paid for Kwan's medical care ever since.*
I considered the risks. Sneaking into the ICU would be difficult, and approaching a dying man with connections to the Alberts could be dangerous.
"Even if we get to him, why would he talk to us?"
Elliot's expression turned grim as he wrote: *Dying men seek absolution.*
He had a point. And this Edward Kwan might be our only link to the truth about Madeline Pierce—a truth that could give us devastating leverage against both Winton and Albert.
"Okay," I decided. "I'll find a way into the ICU. You stay here and continue searching the records. If anyone questions you—"
*Play crazy,* he finished for me with a slight smile.
I squeezed his hand before leaving, struck again by how quickly our alliance had evolved into something like partnership. It was dangerous—getting attached to Elliot complicated my mission—but I couldn't deny his value.
Getting into the ICU required more finesse than force. I borrowed a lab coat from an unattended office, clipped a random badge to its pocket facing inward so only the back was visible, and carried a clipboard with authority. In hospitals, confidence was often the only credential needed.
Edward Kwan occupied a private room at the end of the ICU corridor—likely Winton's doing, ensuring privacy for a man who knew too much. Through the window, I could see an elderly Asian man, thin and jaundiced, oxygen tubes in his nose and multiple IV lines in his arms. Terminal cancer, indeed.
I entered quietly, checking that no medical staff were present. "Mr. Kwan?"
His eyes—yellowed but alert—flickered to me. "Another new doctor?" His voice was barely audible, a dry whisper.
"No," I said, moving closer. "My name is... Cynthia. I need to ask you about Winton Pierce."
His heart monitor beeped faster. "Get out."
"I know about Madeline Pierce," I pressed, watching his reaction. "And the beach house incident."
The old man's face contorted with what might have been fear or pain. "Who sent you?"
"No one. I'm trying to stop the Alberts before they hurt anyone else."
He studied me with surprising intensity for someone so close to death. "Too late for that. They've been hurting people for decades."
"Help me stop them," I urged. "Tell me what happened to Madeline."
Kwan's breathing grew labored, the monitor showing increased heart rate. "Why should I trust you?"
I hesitated, then decided truth was my best strategy. I pulled up my sleeve, revealing a surgical scar. "Three years ago, Lucas Albert and his friends held me down and poured acid on my face because I threatened to expose him. Winton Pierce covered it up. I'm not the first, and I won't be the last unless someone speaks out."
Something in my story reached him. He closed his eyes briefly, then whispered, "Recorder?"
I placed my phone on his bed, setting it to record. "Thank you."
What followed was a confession that chilled me to my core. In halting, breathless sentences, Edward Kwan described how Madeline Pierce had discovered financial irregularities in the Albert Foundation's books—millions flowing from offshore accounts linked to human trafficking operations in Eastern Europe and Southeast Asia.
"She confronted Albert," Kwan wheezed. "Threatened to go to authorities. Winton was in Zurich. Albert called me to the beach house... said there'd been an accident."
"But it wasn't an accident," I prompted gently.
"She was already dead when I arrived. Blow to the head. Albert was... calm. Too calm. Said we needed to protect the family legacy."
"So you helped him hide the body?"
Kwan's eyes filled with tears. "Under the boat house. Concrete being poured for renovations the next day. Perfect timing." His bitter laugh turned into a coughing fit.
"And Winton?" I asked when he could speak again. "Did he know?"
"Albert told him it was an intruder, that Madeline surprised them. Winton suspected the truth, I think, but chose not to see it. Easier to believe the lie. Albert paid for his silence with partnership in the foundation."
"The foundation that was laundering money," I clarified.
Kwan nodded weakly. "Clean money out, dirty money in. Brilliant system. Charitable donations provide perfect cover."
As his strength waned, I asked the most important question: "Is there proof? Documents, records?"
"Madeline kept... backup files. Hidden in... music box." His breathing grew more labored. "Winton's office... false bottom in desk drawer... Japanese design... cherry blossoms..."
The monitor began beeping urgently as Kwan's vitals dropped. I quickly pressed the call button, backing away as medical staff rushed in.
"Code Blue!" someone shouted. "Get a crash cart!"
I slipped out in the confusion, my mind reeling from Kwan's confession. This was far bigger than my personal vendetta. The Alberts and Winton weren't just covering up assaults—they were potentially involved in murder and human trafficking.
When I returned to Elliot's room, I found him sitting up in bed, watching a news broadcast on the small TV with an expression of alarm. He pointed urgently to the screen where a breaking news banner announced:
"ALBERT INDUSTRIES HEIR IN CRITICAL CONDITION AFTER APPARENT SUICIDE ATTEMPT"
The reporter's voice filled the room: "Lucas Albert, son of billionaire Albert Friedrich, was found unconscious in his apartment this afternoon from an apparent insulin overdose. Sources close to the family say Albert had been distraught following a confrontation with a former employee. He remains in critical condition at Presbyterian Hospital..."
Elliot and I exchanged shocked looks. Lucas hadn't struck me as suicidal—arrogant, entitled, dangerous, but not self-destructive.
"This isn't right," I murmured. "This feels like..."
Elliot completed my thought in writing: *A setup. Father eliminating a liability.*
The possibility was horrifying yet plausible. Albert Friedrich, facing exposure on multiple fronts, might decide that a son in a coma—or dead—would generate more sympathy than a son exposed as a violent criminal.
"We need to move faster," I said, the urgency of our situation becoming clear. "Kwan just told me Madeline Pierce kept evidence in a music box in Winton's office. If we can get that, plus what you've found here..."
Elliot nodded grimly, writing: *Tonight. While they're distracted by Lucas.*
As if on cue, my phone buzzed with a news alert: "ALBERT FRIEDRICH CANCELS MAJOR INVESTOR MEETING TO BE AT SON'S BEDSIDE"
The pieces were aligning perfectly. With Albert and Winton likely camped at Lucas's hospital bedside, their offices would be vulnerable. This might be our only chance to retrieve Madeline's evidence.
"We move at midnight," I decided. "And Elliot—this just became more dangerous than revenge. If they're willing to eliminate Lucas to protect themselves..."
He finished the thought in his notebook: *They'll kill us without hesitation.*
The gravity of our situation settled over us like a physical weight. What had begun as my personal quest for justice had evolved into something far deadlier—a war against powerful men with blood already on their hands.
