Chapter 3 - The Hospital in Cabo
I woke to a fetal monitor.
That sound is impossible to describe unless you have needed it.
Fast.
Rhythmic.
My daughter’s heartbeat.
Alive.
I opened my eyes.
White ceiling.
Hospital lights.
A nurse leaning over me.
“Mrs. Vance?”
I tried to sit.
Pain stopped me.
“My baby.”
“Heart rate is reassuring.”
“Bleeding?”
“Your doctor is coming.”
“Julian?”
The nurse hesitated.
That was answer enough.
My father sat in the corner.
I had never seen him look old before.
Admiral Hector Sterling was sixty two and had spent his life making fear look optional.
Now his hands were shaking.
“Dad.”
He stood.
Crossed the room.
He did not hug me immediately.
“Can I?”
I nodded.
Then I was eight years old again.
He held me carefully.
“You’re here.”
“What happened?”
“Maritime rescue got you off the water. You lost consciousness from exhaustion and medication effects. You’re being evaluated.”
“Baby?”
“Stable.”
“Am I in labor?”
“Not currently, according to obstetrics.”
I closed my eyes.
Tears came.
No drama.
Relief.
My obstetrician in Cabo, Dr. Elena Marquez, explained:
The bleeding appeared to come from a combination of cervical change and trauma related irritation, but there was no evidence at that moment of placental abruption.
Ultrasound reassuring.
Fetal monitoring continued.
No guarantee.
Observation at least twenty four hours.
Toxicology screening had detected a sedating medication inconsistent with my prescribed prenatal regimen.
She would not say who gave it.
Good.
Medicine establishes exposure.
Not guilt.
The wrist restraints left bruising.
My abdomen had superficial bruising.
No fractures.
No immediate delivery necessary.
That was the best possible outcome after the ocean.
When Dr. Marquez left, I asked:
“Where’s Julian?”
Dad sat.
“Mexican authorities interviewed him.”
“Arrested?”
“Not formally when I last checked. Victoria was detained at the marina pending investigation because rescue crews witnessed her towing you.”
“He watched.”
“We have witnesses.”
“He drugged me.”
“We have toxicology showing medication exposure. We still need chain and source.”
My father’s precision annoyed me.
Then comforted me.
No revenge story.
Evidence.
“Who paid?”
He looked at me.
“What?”
“The charter.”
Silence.
“Dad, you said someone financed it.”
“We traced the resort watercraft reservation deposit to a corporate card.”
“Whose?”
“Northstar Strategic Holdings.”
I stared.
My own investment vehicle.
“That’s impossible.”
“I thought so.”
“Who has access?”
“Your mother. Two trust executives. You. Historically me for emergency oversight.”
“Julian?”
“No.”
“Victoria?”
“No.”
“Then how…”
My father leaned forward.
“Genevieve, Northstar also made the investment into Julian’s company five years ago.”
“I know.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“You knew?”
“I was the one who asked Mom to do it.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“You never told him.”
“No.”
“Does he know now?”
“I don’t know.”
Dad looked toward hospital door.
“Someone inside the trust structure has been communicating with Julian.”
My stomach tightened.
“Mom?”
“No evidence.”
“Who?”
“We’re examining.”
“Dad.”
“One transaction isn’t enough to accuse someone.”
“What about the charter payment?”
“It was made through an expense card attached to Northstar’s Cabo due diligence account.”
“Who controls that?”
“Adrian Cross.”
The name landed.
Adrian Cross.
Fifty five.
Chief investment officer for the Sterling Family Trust.
My mother’s most trusted financial lieutenant.
He had known me since I was thirteen.
He attended my wedding.
Sent a silver rattle when I became pregnant.
“No.”
Dad watched me.
“Exactly what I said.”
“Could card be compromised?”
“Yes.”
“Then…”
“We find out.”
I looked toward monitor.
Our daughter’s heart continued.
“Why would Adrian help Julian?”
“I don’t know.”
Then my phone, sealed in an evidence bag on the counter, began vibrating.
Dad looked.
Screen:
MARGARET STERLING.
My mother.
I asked:
“Does she know?”
“She knows you were rescued. She’s flying in.”
“Does she know Adrian’s card paid?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because until we know whether Adrian acted, was compromised, or was framed, nobody who controls trust records gets advance notice.”
I stared.
“You don’t trust Mom?”
“I trust evidence more.”
There it was.
The family lesson I would need.
Later that afternoon, a Mexican investigator named Captain Isabel Romero came with an interpreter and U.S. consular liaison.
She took my statement.
Everything I remembered.
Capsules.
Victoria.
Tow line.
Julian watching.
I did not say murder.
I said:
“I believed my life and my baby’s life were in danger.”
Accurate.
Captain Romero asked:
“Did your husband tell you to ride?”
“He pressured me publicly, then appeared to accept my refusal.”
“Did you voluntarily board later?”
“No. I lost consciousness on resort property.”
“Do you remember being tied?”
“No.”
“Any enemies?”
I almost laughed.
“Apparently.”
Then:
“Do you know Victoria Hayes?”
“My husband’s consultant.”
“Romantic relationship?”
“I suspect affair.”
“Evidence?”
“No direct.”
Good.
I was learning.
Suspicion is not fact.
At six p.m., Captain Romero returned.
“Mrs. Vance, your husband says the jet ski ride was a prank arranged by Victoria.”
I stared.
“He says what?”
“He claims he did not know you were drugged.”
“He stood on the dock.”
“He says he believed you had agreed to stunt.”
“Strapped?”
“He says he could not see restraints.”
I laughed once.
It hurt.
Then:
“Victoria says your husband planned the entire thing.”
There it was.
May you like
They had already begun turning on each other.
And we had not even found who paid.
