Chapter 2 - The Coldest Dawn
The drive from Seattle Grace Memorial to the Vance estate in Laurelhurst was conducted in utter silence. The sun was just beginning to crest over Lake Washington, casting a cold, indifferent golden glow over the manicured lawns and towering gates of the neighborhood where Seattle's elite hid behind their wealth.
Evelyn rode in the back of Arthur’s bulletproof SUV, her scrubs still stained with the faint, rust-colored traces of Lily’s blood. Her father sat beside her, holding her hand in a iron grip.
“You don't have to go in there today, Evie,” Arthur said as the black iron gates of the estate swung open. “I can have my team clear out Lily’s things. I can have my lawyers serve him with papers by noon. You can come home with me to Mercer Island.”
“No,” Evelyn said, her gaze fixed on the sprawling, Georgian-style mansion. “I need to look him in the eye when he realizes what he’s done. I need to see the exact moment his hollow little soul understands that his props are gone.”
When she stepped through the grand double doors of the foyer, the house smelled of expensive cedarwood, fresh lilies, and stale alcohol.
Julian’s Italian leather shoes were kicked off haphazardly near the marble staircase. A velvet suit jacket lay draped over the banister.
Evelyn walked up the sweeping staircase with measured, heavy steps, Arthur trailing silently a few paces behind her like a shadow of doom. She pushed open the door to the master suite.
Julian was sprawled across the king-sized bed, snoring lightly, still wearing his dress shirt with the collar undone. His phone—the phone that had received nineteen emergency calls—lay on the bedside table, plugged into a rapid charger.
Evelyn walked over to the bed and stood there for a long moment, watching his chest rise and fall. This was the man she had loved for twelve years. The man she had worked twenty-hour hospital shifts to support while he launched his first boutique real estate firm. The man who had cried tears of joy when Lily was placed in his arms in the delivery room.
She reached out and grabbed the pitcher of ice water resting on the nightstand. Without a flicker of emotion, she inverted it over his face.
Julian gasped violently, thrashing against the silk sheets as the freezing water and ice cubes hit his skin. He bolted upright, coughing, his eyes wild and bloodshot.
“What the hell—Evelyn? Are you insane?!” he roared, wiping the freezing water from his eyes. He squinted at her, his hangover making him sluggish and irritable. “Do you have any idea what time I got in? The Emerald Gala run-over lasted until three in the morning! I closed the Henderson deal! You could at least act like a supportive wife instead of acting like a psycho—”
He stopped. His eyes had finally focused on her clothes.
He saw the crumpled, green surgical scrubs. He saw the disheveled hair. And then, his gaze dropped to the dried, brownish-red smudges across her chest and hands.
“Why are you wearing scrubs?” Julian asked, his voice dropping into a hesitant, confused register. “Are you just getting back from a shift? Where’s Lily? Why isn't she waking me up to watch cartoons?”
Evelyn didn't blink. “Lily is in the morgue, Julian.”
The silence that followed was so absolute that the ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the hallway sounded like gunshots.
Julian’s face went completely slack. The irritation vanished, replaced by a blank, stupid look of uncomprehending denial. “What... what did you just say? That’s not funny, Evie. Don't play sick jokes like that.”
“She started wheezing at eleven last night,” Evelyn said, her voice delivering the facts with the clinical precision of a coroner’s report. “Her emergency rescue inhalers were empty. I called you to bring the backups from the house while I called the ambulance. You didn't answer.”
Julian’s hand shot out toward his nightstand, fumbling for his phone. He unlocked it with trembling fingers. His eyes widened as the screen populated with notifications: 19 Missed Calls: Evelyn. 4 Voice Messages.
“I... my phone was on silent,” he stammered, the color completely draining from his face until he was as pale as the sheets beneath him. “I was in the VIP lounge. The music was loud, Evelyn, I swear to God I didn't hear it! I didn't know!”
“She went into severe respiratory arrest in the ambulance,” Evelyn continued, stepping one inch closer to the bed. “By the time we reached the pediatric ICU, her brain had been deprived of oxygen for too long. Her heart went into ventricular fibrillation at 1:40 a.m. I defibrillated my own six-year-old daughter three times, Julian. Do you know what it feels like to feel your child’s ribs crack under your own hands while you try to force her heart to beat?”
“Oh, God,” Julian choked out. He scrambled off the edge of the bed, dropping his phone onto the floor. He tried to reach for Evelyn, his hands shaking violently. “No, no, no, no... Evie, please tell me you’re lying. Please tell me my baby girl is okay!”
Evelyn stepped back, avoiding his touch as if he were covered in plague.
“Time of death was 2:14 a.m.,” she said softly. “While you were drinking champagne with Chloe Monroe and smiling for the society pages.”
Julian froze. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the imported Persian rug, his hands digging into his hair as a guttural, wretched sob ripped from his throat. “I didn't know! Evelyn, I swear on my life I didn't know! I love her! I love Lily!”
“You loved the idea of her,” Evelyn said, looking down at him with a pity that was worse than hatred. “You loved posing with her for the Vance Enterprises holiday cards. But when she needed her father to save her life, you were busy feeding your ego.”
She turned her back on him and walked toward the doorway, where Arthur Sterling stood with his arms crossed, watching his son-in-law grovel on the floor with absolute disgust.
“Evelyn! Don't leave me!” Julian screamed, crawling toward the door. “We have to go to the hospital! We have to see her!”
“You will not go near her,” Arthur said, his voice booming through the hallway like thunder, stopping Julian dead in his tracks. “If you set one foot on hospital property, or within fifty yards of my daughter, my security team will break both of your legs. Then my lawyers will take your company, your trust fund, and every single cent your father left you.”
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“Arthur, please—” Julian wept, looking up at the titan of industry he had always secretly intimidated by. “She’s my daughter too!”
“She was your daughter,” Evelyn said without turning around. “Now, she’s just my memory. I’ll send for her clothes this afternoon. Expect my attorney by tomorrow.”
