He Hit His Pregnant Wife and Sent Her Into Labor, but He Forgot Her Father Had Spent Thirty Years Building the City Around Him

The third floor of St. Catherine Medical Center smelled of antiseptic, burnt coffee, and cold floor wax.

When Richard Hall stepped off the elevator at 1:52 AM, four plainclothes guards from his personal security detail were already positioned at both ends of the hallway.

Dr. Marcus Vance walked out through the double doors of the surgical unit, stripping off his surgical cap and paper gown. His scrubs were stained with fresh blood.

Richard walked straight up to him. "Tell me."

"Grace is in recovery," Dr. Vance said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "She lost a significant amount of blood, Mr. Hall. The abruption was severe. We had to perform an emergency vertical incision to get the baby out before he suffocated."

Richard’s chest heaved once. "And my grandson?"

Dr. Vance paused, looking down at his clipboard before meeting Richard’s eyes. "He’s four pounds, two ounces. He’s in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit on a ventilator. His lungs are underdeveloped, and he suffered brief hypoxia before delivery. The next forty-eight hours will be critical."

"Can I see her?"

"She’s waking up from the anesthesia. She’s in Room 312."

Richard pushed past the doors, his heavy leather shoes sounding like iron steps down the corridor.

Room 312 was dimly lit by the soft blue light of a heart monitor. Grace lay on the adjustable bed, an IV line taped to the back of her left hand, an oxygen nasal cannula beneath her nose. Her face was pale, almost translucent against the white hospital pillows.

As Richard stepped into the room, Grace’s eyes opened slowly.

"Dad..." she breathed, her voice a dry, ragged whisper.

Richard walked to the side of the bed, knelt down on the linoleum floor, and took her cold hand in both of his broad, calloused palms.

"I’m here, Grace," he whispered, pressing her fingers to his cheek. "I’m right here."

Tears spilled out of the corners of her eyes, soaking into the fabric of the pillowcase. "I’m sorry... Dad, I’m so sorry... you told me... you warned me four years ago..."

"Shh," Richard commanded softly, leaning up to kiss her damp forehead. "Don't you ever say that to me. You have nothing to apologize for. Do you hear me? Nothing."

"The baby..." Grace choked out, her stomach shuddering beneath the heavy hospital blankets as she tried to move. "Is he... is he breathing?"

"He’s in the NICU, Grace. He’s fighting. He has your stubbornness." Richard squeezed her hand gently. "He’s going to make it."

Grace closed her eyes, a fresh wave of physical and emotional pain tearing through her. "Tyler... he took my phone, Dad. He locked the apartment door from the outside... he was going to let me... he was going to let us die..."

Richard stood up slowly.

He reached down, carefully tucking the heavy hospital blanket around her shoulders, his thumb softly wiping the tears from her cheek.

"Sleep now, Grace," Richard said, his tone dropping into a terrifyingly soft hush. "Your job is to stay alive and heal for your son. Let your father take care of the rest."

"Dad..." Grace whispered, looking up at him with sudden fear in her eyes. "What are you going to do?"

Richard didn't answer.

He walked out of Room 312, pulling the door shut behind him with a quiet click.

Arthur Vance was waiting in the hallway, holding a black leather tablet.

"We have Tyler's location," Arthur reported in a low voice. "He didn't go back to his apartment. He took a yellow cab to his brother's place in Flushing, Queens. He checked his bank account online at 1:40 AM and transferred $12,000 from their joint savings into a private account."

"He’s preparing to run," Richard said, walking toward the elevator.

"Should I have the NYPD intercept him?" Arthur asked.