Chapter 91: The Medical Emergency

Mark’s betrayal was a cold weight in my chest, heavier than the baby in my arms. I stared at the photo, at the smug look on his face, the lawyer’s hand wrapped in his. He had played both sides. He had survived.

"We can't go back to the hospital," I said, shoving the phone into my pocket. "Mark will have told them we were coming."

"Where do we go?" Ben asked, steering the car through the rain-slicked streets. "The safe houses are burned. The contacts are compromised."

"The journalist," Lucia said from the back seat. "Miller. He's at the hospital, right? He's the only one who knows the truth."

"He's surrounded by press," I said. "And probably police. If we go near him, we're caught."

I looked at the baby. He was sleeping, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The stabilizer Clara had given us was working.

But for how long?

"We need a doctor," I said. "Not Patel. Someone off the books."

"I know someone," Ben said. "An old army medic. He runs a clinic in the Bronx. No questions asked."

"Take us there," I said.

We drove in silence, the city lights blurring past. My mind was racing, trying to piece together the fragments of the conspiracy. Edith was dead. Martha was buried. Clara was... somewhere. In the water.

And Mark was alive. And dangerous.

We reached the clinic an hour later. It was in the back of a bodega, smelling of bleach and old spices. The medic, a man named Sal, looked us over without blinking.

"Gunshot wounds?" he asked, eyeing Ben's head.

"Scratches," Ben said. "But we have a baby. He needs monitoring."

Sal led us to a back room. He hooked the baby up to a portable monitor.

"His vitals are stable," Sal said. "But his bloodwork is weird. High red cell count. Accelerated metabolism."

"He's... special," I said.

"He's a time bomb," Sal muttered. "Whatever you gave him, it bought you time. But he needs a real hospital."

"We can't go to a hospital," Lucia said.

"Then you need a lab," Sal said. "And I don't have one."

He patched up Ben and Lucia, gave us some antibiotics, and told us to leave.

We sat in the car, the engine idling.

"What now?" Ben asked.

"We need to find Clara," I said. "She said she has the sequence. The knowledge to stabilize him permanently."

"She jumped into the river, Sarah," Ben said. "She's gone."

"She's a Sterling," I said. "She doesn't die that easily."

I thought about the pier. The water. The current.

"If she survived," I said, "she'd go to ground. She'd go somewhere safe."

"She doesn't have anywhere safe," Lucia said. "Edith took everything."

"Not everything," I said.

I pulled out the journal again. I flipped through the pages, looking for a clue. A hidden property. A safe house.

Nothing.

But then, I saw it.

A drawing.

Not a map. A sketch.

A nursery.

But not the one in the hoarding house. This one was different. It had a window overlooking a garden. And in the corner, a rocking chair with a specific pattern.

*Bluebells.*

"I know this chair," I whispered.

"What?" Ben asked.

"I've seen it," I said. "In a photo. In my baby book."

I closed my eyes, trying to remember. The photo of Edith holding me. But the background... the background wasn't the Estate. It wasn't the Hoard.

It was a small, yellow house with a white picket fence.

"The cottage," I said. "Archibald bought a cottage for his mistress. For Maria Elena."

"I thought she lived at the Estate," Lucia said.

"She did," I said. "But maybe she had a place of her own. A place Edith didn't know about."

I showed them the sketch.

"Clara drew this. She knew about it."

"Where is it?" Ben asked.

"I don't know," I said. "But I know who might."

"Who?"

"Mark," I said.

"Mark betrayed us," Lucia spat.

"Exactly," I said. "He knows all of Edith's secrets. He knows where the bodies are buried. And if he made a deal with the lawyer... he might know about the cottage."

"You want to ask him?" Ben asked, incredulous.

"No," I said. "I want to steal his phone."

"He's in the hospital," Ben said. "Under guard."

"He's in the private wing," I said. "Room 404. Clara's old room. He sent the photo from there."

"It's a fortress," Lucia said.

"It's a hospital," I said. "And we have a schematic of the HVAC system."

I looked at the baby.

"We can't take him," I said. "Sal has to keep him."

"Sal won't do it," Ben said.

"He will for five thousand dollars," I said, pulling a wad of cash from the briefcase—money Vance had stashed with the files.

We went back inside. Sal took the money, grumbling, but he agreed to watch the baby for three hours.

"Three hours," he said. "Then I call social services."

"We'll be back," I promised.

We drove back to the hospital. The press had thinned out, but the police presence was still heavy.

We parked a few blocks away and walked. We found the maintenance entrance Subject 12 had marked. It was still unlocked.

We climbed into the vents. It was tighter this time, hotter. My muscles screamed in protest.

We reached the junction above the private wing. Room 404.

I looked down.

Mark was there. He was sleeping, his chest rising and falling. The lawyer was gone.

But there was a guard. A private security contractor, sitting in the corner, reading a magazine.

"How do we get him out?" Lucia whispered.

"We don't," I said. "We just need the phone."

It was on the bedside table, next to a pitcher of water.

I looked at the vent cover. It was screwed shut.

"Ben," I whispered. "The screwdriver."

Ben handed me the tool. I worked the screws loose, catching them before they fell.

I lowered the grate.

"I'm going down," I said.

"Sarah, no," Ben said. "If you wake him..."

"I won't," I said.

I lowered myself through the opening, hanging by my fingertips. I dropped to the floor. Silent.

The guard didn't look up.

I crept toward the bed. Mark looked pale, fragile. It was hard to hate him when he looked like that. But then I remembered the text. *I made a deal.*

I reached for the phone.

My fingers brushed the cool glass.

Mark's eyes snapped open.

He saw me.

He didn't scream. He didn't call the guard.

He smiled.

"Took you long enough," he whispered.

The guard looked up.

"Hey!"

He reached for his radio.

Mark grabbed the pitcher of water and threw it at the guard. It shattered against the wall, distracting him.

"Run, Sarah!" Mark yelled. "The cottage is in Montauk! 42 Ocean View Drive!"

The guard tackled Mark, pinning him to the bed.

"Go!" Mark screamed.

I grabbed the phone.

I didn't run for the vent. I ran for the door.

I burst into the hallway, almost colliding with a nurse.

"Security!" she shouted.

I ran. I sprinted down the corridor, dodging gurneys and wheelchairs. I hit the stairwell, taking the steps three at a time.

I burst out into the lobby.

The police were waiting.

"Freeze!"

I froze.

But then, the lights flickered.

And went out.

The emergency generators kicked in, bathing the lobby in red light.

In the confusion, I saw a figure by the fire alarm.

Ben.

He had cut the power.

"Go!" he shouted.

I ran out the front doors, into the night.

I made it to the car. Lucia was waiting in the driver's seat.

"Where's Ben?" she asked.

"He stayed behind," I said, my chest aching. "He bought us time."

"Montauk," I said. "Drive."

We picked up the baby from Sal's. We drove east, toward the ocean.

We reached the cottage just as the sun was rising. It was small, yellow, overgrown with vines. It looked abandoned.

But there was a light in the window.

I walked up the path, the baby in my arms. I knocked on the door.

It opened.

Clara stood there. She was dry, wearing a clean dress. She looked like a ghost.

"You found it," she said.

"Mark told me," I said.

She nodded.

"He was always a good boy," she said. "Deep down."

She looked at the baby.

"Give him to me," she said.

"No," I said. "Not until you tell me how to save him."

"I can't tell you," she said. "I have to show you."

She stepped back.

"Come in."

I stepped into the cottage.

It wasn't a house.

It was a nursery.

Every room. Cribs. Mobiles. Toys.

But they were all empty.

Except for one.

In the center of the living room, in a crib made of gold, lay a baby.

Not the spare.

Another one.

"Generation Five," Clara whispered. "The final draft."

I stared at the baby.

It didn't have blue eyes.

It had green eyes.

Martha's eyes.

"She cloned herself," I whispered.

"She tried," Clara said. "But she failed. This one... this one is dying too."

She looked at me.

"That's why she needs the marrow. Not for herself. For her."

She pointed to the baby.

"She wants to live forever, Sarah. Through her."

Suddenly, the baby in my arms began to convulse. The monitor started beeping. High, frantic chirps.

"He's crashing," Clara said calmly. "The stabilizer is wearing off."

"Fix him!" I screamed.

"I can," Clara said. "But I need something from you."

"What?"

"A trade," she said.

She pointed to the golden crib.

"Save her. And I'll save him."

I looked at the baby with Martha's eyes. The monster reborn.

"If I save her," I said, "she becomes Martha."

" nurture vs nature," Clara said. "Maybe you can raise her better."

The monitor flatlined.

A long, steady tone.

"Choose, Sarah," Clara said. "The son or the sinner."