Unwanted Blood (Harper) novel Chapter 70

Chapter 70

Harper’s POV

I locked myself in the bedroom the next morning.

On the desk, I spread a blank sheet of paper. I picked up a pen, and drew the Westbrook estate from memory.

The main house-front entrance, back entrance, kitchen, dining room, hallway, stairs, my room, Adrian’s study, every corridor and landing. I marked the camera positions, the blind spots, and the guard posts-the four at the east building, the two at the main gate, the one who patrolled the garden perimeter every twenty minutes.

Then the east building. Smaller. Simpler. One floor above ground, one below. The ventilator room. The medical supply room. The sealed boxes in the metal cabinet. The window on the north side that didn’t latch fully.

I drew it all. Every wall. Every door. Every window. And then I drew the guard rotation-shift changes at 6:00 a.m., 2:00 p.m., 10:00 p.m. The overlap gaps. The three-minute window between the north-side guard finishing his loop and the perimeter guard starting his.

I looked at the map. I memorised it.

Ryder knocked before he came in. He had a mug of coffee in his hand. He set it on the desk.

“The rendezvous point is set,” he said. His voice was even, controlled. “Northwest tree line, two hundred metres from the east wall. I’ll be there with the car running. You get in, you get out, you come straight to me.”

I nodded.

He paused at the door. “Four hours,” he added. “If you’re not out in four hours, we’re coming in. However we have to.”

I looked up at him. “I’ll be out before that. “He nodded.

I folded the map and slipped it into my jacket pocket. Then I changed. Black trousers. Black long- sleeve shirt. Soft-soled shoes. I put my phone in the left pocket and the folding knife Ryder had given me in the right-handle inward, blade against my thigh, reachable with my left hand in a panic.

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I stood in front of the mirror. I looked like a shadow.

At the door, I stopped.

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Behind me, through the wall, I could see the warm glow of the house windows. The light spilling onto the pavement.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t turn around.

But

my heart beat faster. Just once. Hard. Against my ribs.

Then I walked down the stairs and into the evening.

9:00 p.m. Northwest approach.

The tree line was dense-old growth, low branches, undergrowth thick enough to swallow sound. I moved through it at a crouch, my hands brushing wet leaves, my boots finding purchase on roots and rocks I couldn’t see.

The estate lights were on. The main house glowed amber through the trees. The east building was darker-only the emergency sconces, casting weak yellow pools on the stone path.

I reached the tree line’s edge and pressed my back against the trunk of an oak. I counted.

One guard at the east building’s front door-visible through the gap between two shrubs. Pacing. Bored. Checking his phone every thirty seconds.

One on the perimeter loop-currently on the far side of the garden, moving away from me. His footsteps crunched on gravel. The rhythm was steady. Predictable.

Once he left, I slipped out from the tree and ran.

Hugging the wall, my shoulder grazing the cold stucco, my boots silent on the damp grass. I reached the north side of the east building and pressed my back against the stone.

The window was there. Three feet off the ground. Cracked open, just enough.

I tested the latch with my fingertips. It slid up. The window rose. I climbed through.

I landed in a crouch on the corridor floor. The antiseptic smell hit me first. Then the ventilator- the steady, mechanical hiss from the room at the far end.

I counted the guards by their footsteps. Two pairs. One pacing the outer corridor. One stationed

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near the ventilator room. One more than last time.

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But I’d prepared for this. I checked my watch: 9:07 p.m. The shift change was at 9:15. The outer guard would leave his post for four minutes to walk to the gate and swap with the incoming man The inner guard would be alone. And at 9:19, when the radio check happened, both guards would turn their attention to their earpieces for exactly twelve seconds.

That gave me six minutes of usable window. If I moved now, I’d have time.

I waited. 9:11. 9:12. 9:13.

The outer guard’s footsteps moved away. The corridor went quieter.

I moved.

I pressed myself against the wall, sliding past the inner guard’s blind spot-the pillar near the supply room door. He was facing the ventilator room, his back to me. I slipped past him like

smoke.

The door wasn’t locked. I pushed it open and stepped inside.

He was in the bed. Thin. Pale. The oxygen tube in his nose, the ventilator machine beside him cycling air in and out with a mechanical rhythm. His eyes were closed.

I pulled out my phone. Switched it to silent. Opened the voice recorder. The red dot appeared on the screen-recording.

I slipped the phone into my pocket. The microphone faced outward.

Until the door clicked.

His eyes opened. Fast. Sharp. Then they landed on me.

“The Wilson girl,” he said. His voice was rough, dry, cracked, “Adrian let you go. What are you doing back?”

“I’m here to ask you one thing,” I said. My voice was low. Steady. “What did you do in the delivery room?”

He was quiet for a few seconds. Then his mouth moved, give me a slow, ugly smile.

“You’ve dug deep,” he said. “Deeper than I expected.”

I didn’t respond.

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“The nurse saw you,” I said “She saw you walk into the delivery room. Then your account transfer to Dr Mercer on the day my mother died.” I held his gaze. “Are you going to keep pretending?”

“The nurse?” He let out a dry, cracked laugh. “The woman who took a bribe and ran? Her testimony would be shredded in court. A paid witness with a history of financial incentive.” He shook his head slightly. “And a bank transfer? I had dozens of transfers to dozens of doctors. Business. Consultations. Nothing illegal.”

He studied me. His eyes were sharp despite the weakness in his body.

“That’s all you have?” he said. “A nurse’s word and a payment record?”

I stepped forward. “Then explain this,” I said. “The transfer to the delivery room doctor-the reference field is blank. You thought that made it untraceable.” I stepped closer. “But you forgot one thing. The doctor kept his own records. Handwritten. Original copies. And on those copies, your name is written next to the order.”

The corner of his eye twitched. Then he was silent for two seconds.

“That’s forged,” he said. But the certainty in his voice was thinner than before.

“Then let’s ask Adrian,” I said. I dropped the name deliberately. Watched his face. “He saw Dr. Mercer’s records. He saw your name. Do you think he’ll lie for you?”

His fingers curled into the bedsheet. Obviously, the name hit something in him-uncertainty, maybe, or the realisation that his own son might not be the weapon he’d assumed.

I didn’t give him time to recover.

I pulled out my phone. Opened the photo. The handwritten medical order. Potassium Chloride – 20ml IV push. And at the bottom, in cramped script, the initials that matched his name.

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