Chapter 3 - The Private Investigation
At six o'clock in the morning, the rain had finally stopped, leaving the city slick and cold under a pale, overcast dawn.
Inside the private recovery suite on the top floor of St. Jude’s, Russell Morrison was sitting up in an armchair near the window. He was fully dressed in a dark wool coat over his hospital gown, having flatly refused the staff's attempts to keep him in bed.
The heavy mahogany door opened, and Detective Marcus Miller walked into the room.
Miller was forty-five, a twenty-year veteran of the city police force who had left the department five years ago to head Morrison Development’s corporate security firm. He carried a sleek black leather folder under his arm.
"You look terrible, Russ," Miller said bluntly, pulling up a chair opposite the billionaire.
"Did you find her?" Russell demanded, ignoring the comment entirely.
Miller opened his folder, laying three high-resolution printouts on the glass coffee table between them.
The images were taken from municipal security cameras mounted near the intersection of 4th Street and Grand Avenue—just outside the Golden Spoon.
In the first image, a tiny, drenched figure was seen walking past a bright neon storefront, holding a large grey bundle tightly in her arms. The second image showed her barefoot silhouette disappearing down an alleyway behind an auto body shop.
"Her name is Sylvie," Miller said quietly.
Russell leaned forward, his hands trembling slightly as he picked up the photograph. "Sylvie. What's her last name? Where are her parents?"
Miller let out a long, heavy sigh. "Her mother was Clara Morrison—no relation to you. Clara was an intake nurse at County General. She died three months ago from sepsis following an unassisted home birth. The baby’s name is Thomas."
Russell’s thumb smoothed over the grainy image of the barefoot child. "And the father?"
"None listed. No family in the state. CPS opened a file when the landlord reported the mother’s death, but by the time the caseworker arrived at the apartment, the kids were gone. This five-year-old child has been living on the streets of this city for twelve weeks, Russell. With an infant."
Russell felt a sudden, crushing weight settle onto his shoulders—a pain far deeper than the physical damage to his heart muscles.
For three months, while he had sat in high-rise steak houses arguing over quarterly profit margins and property acquisitions, a five-year-old girl had been carrying a newborn baby through alleys, sleeping on concrete, and hiding from the world.
"Where is she now, Marcus?" Russell asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous, razor-sharp whisper.
"We tracked her last location on the industrial camera network four hours ago," Miller said, standing up. "She was heading toward the docks near 12th Street. But Russ... the weather dropped to thirty-four degrees last night. An infant exposed to that kind of cold..."
Russell stood up so fast his heart monitor cable yanked taut against the wall unit. He ripped the adhesive sensors off his chest without flinching.
"Get the car," Russell commanded, pulling his coat tight around his shoulders.
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"Russ! The doctors said you can't be discharged—"
"If I stay in this bed while that child freezes to death, my heart isn't worth saving anyway," Russell said, walking straight past his security chief toward the door. "Get the car, Marcus. Now."
