Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN IN THE TAN COAT
“Carter took my badge.”
The words tasted bitter.
My father immediately reached for the nurse-call button, but I caught his wrist.
“Please. Don't let them think I'm accusing people because I'm upset.”
“Hannah, you just identified the last person who had access to your belongings. That's information, not revenge.”
He was right.
Still, I had spent so long being told I was irrational that speaking confidently felt almost dangerous.
Hospital security supervisor Michael Grant arrived twenty minutes later.
He was a heavyset man with gentle eyes who had known me since my first year at Saint Agnes.
“Hannah, we're not investigating you as a suspect,” he said. “We're trying to understand why your credentials were used.”
He showed me the access record.
11:17 p.m.
Neonatal equipment storage.
Employee: Hannah Mercer Voss.
I shook my head.
“I was in surgery.”
“We've confirmed that.”
Michael hesitated.
“Your badge was used again at 11:26 to access a procurement records room.”
My father sat forward.
“Can you identify the person?”
“We're reviewing footage.”
I knew those areas.
Neither was somewhere an ordinary visitor belonged.
The procurement records room held documents for expensive hospital equipment.
And the neonatal storage area contained supplies that the NICU depended on.
“Michael,” I asked, “what exactly was accessed?”
He looked uncomfortable.
“We're still determining that.”
I recognized the expression.
He knew more than he wanted to say.
“Please.”
He sighed.
“Three weeks ago, the hospital discovered discrepancies involving equipment purchased through a maternal-health grant.”
“What kind of discrepancies?”
“Shipping records. Receiving signatures. Inventory that didn't match.”
My heart began pounding.
I remembered something.
Two months earlier, I'd helped Rosa Alvarez, our charge nurse, check supplies during a busy overnight shift.
She'd mentioned a shipment of neonatal transport incubators that had supposedly arrived.
But nobody could find the machines.
At the time, I assumed it was a paperwork problem.
Now I wasn't sure.
“Those transport incubators,” I whispered. “Is that what you're investigating?”
Michael studied me.
“How did you know?”
“Rosa mentioned them.”
He closed the folder.
“That's something our compliance team needs to discuss with you.”
After he left, my father remained quiet.
Then he asked, “Did Carter ever ask about your work records?”
I almost said no.
Then I remembered our kitchen table six weeks earlier.
Carter had been unusually affectionate that evening.
He'd made dinner.
Rubbed my swollen ankles.
Asked about the hospital's new equipment program.
I remembered laughing.
“Since when are you interested in neonatal transport systems?”
He'd kissed my forehead.
“Since my beautiful wife talks about them every night.”
I'd been so hungry for kindness that I'd believed him.
Now the memory made me sick.
“Dad,” I whispered, “I think he knew something was happening at the hospital.”
My father didn't rush to conclusions.
“Then we'll tell the investigators what you remember.”
A knock sounded from the hallway.
It was Rosa.
Her dark hair was tied into a messy bun, and her eyes were red.
“Oh, Hannah.”
She hurried to my bedside.
“I heard what happened. I tried calling you.”
I squeezed her hand.
“Ben's alive.”
She nodded, crying.
“I know. I checked on him before coming upstairs. He's receiving breathing support, but he's stable.”
For a moment, relief washed over me.
Then I asked about the missing equipment.
Rosa's face changed.
“What equipment?”
“The incubators.”
Her hand went still.
“Who told you about those?”
“Security.”
She glanced toward the doorway.
“Hannah, you shouldn't be discussing hospital procurement while you're recovering.”
“Why?”
“Because people have lost their jobs over those records.”
I stared at her.
“Rosa, do you know something?”
She opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
Before she could answer, Michael returned.
He carried a tablet.
“We identified the person who used your badge.”
My father stood.
Michael turned the screen toward us.
The footage was grainy but clear enough.
A woman in a tan wool coat walked down the restricted corridor.
She stopped at the neonatal storage door.
Raised my badge.
And entered.
My stomach twisted.
I recognized the coat.
The gold buttons.
The way the woman carried her handbag.
It was Eleanor.
My mother-in-law.
The same woman who had shoved me into the countertop.
Rosa made a strange sound.
“No,” she whispered.
Michael looked between us.
“Do you recognize her?”
I nodded.
“That's Eleanor Voss.”
He took a breath.
“Then there's another problem.”
He opened a second document.
“Six neonatal transport incubators were marked as received last month. The hospital never located them.”
He turned the tablet.
At the bottom of the receiving report was an electronic signature.
My signature.
Except I had never signed it.
May you like
And beside it, in bold letters, were the words:
RECEIVED AND VERIFIED BY HANNAH M. VOSS.
