Chapter 4 - The Ghost of River North
Two days passed in a strange, heightened routine.
Ellie’s world shifted completely. No longer rushed from room to room, cleaning bedpans and changing IV lines for twelve frantic patients, her entire existence became centered on Room 208. She washed Charles’s hands with warm lavender water, read him chapters from old biographies of Russian composers, played the jazz records, and sang to him every night at precisely two in the morning.
The progress was slow, almost imperceptible to an outsider, but Ellie noticed every tiny shift.
A twitch of the left eyelid when she sang an off-key note. A slight rise in his oxygen saturation whenever the needle dropped on a Billie Holiday record.
And then, on Thursday night, Julian returned.
He stepped into the room at midnight, carrying two paper cups of dark coffee from a small local roaster near the lake. He had taken off his suit jacket, wearing only a dark charcoal sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms.
"You look tired," he said, handing her one of the cups.
"It's the night shift," Ellie replied, taking the cup with a polite smile. "It turns everyone into ghosts eventually. Thank you for the coffee."
Julian took a seat in the second chair near the window. He looked at his father for a long moment before leaning back and looking at her.
"I received a file today," Julian said casually, taking a sip of his coffee.
Ellie’s hand paused on her cup. "A file?"
"On you," he said directly, lacking any pretense. "Ellie Monroe. Born in South Chicago. Attended Columbia College for three terms before dropping out when your father fell ill. Sang at The Blue Hour for eighteen months until November of 2024."
Ellie felt a cold wave of anger flush through her veins. She set her coffee down on the table with a sharp snap.
"You had me investigated?" she said, her voice rising slightly before she caught herself and lowered it out of respect for Charles. "I am your father's nurse, Mr. Whitmore. Not your employee at a tech company. You have no right to dig into my life."
"I have every right when I am entrusting my father’s care to a stranger," Julian countered, his tone remaining remarkably smooth, though his eyes burned with an intense curiosity. "And I wanted to know why a woman with a vocal range that could fill Symphony Center is working night shifts at a recovery clinic for twenty-one dollars an hour."
"Because twenty-one dollars an hour pays for rent and groceries!" Ellie snapped, her eyes flashing with a fierce, wounded pride. "Because music doesn't pay bills when your manager steals your catalog rights, signs your name to a predatory debt release, and leaves you with twelve thousand dollars in unpaid studio fees!"
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the hum of the heart monitor.
Julian didn't look surprised. He simply nodded once, as if confirming a piece of information he had already analyzed.
"Marcus Kane," Julian said quietly, naming her former manager. "He operates out of a small independent studio on Ontario Street now. He’s been taking thirty percent from young jazz artists who don't know how to read publishing clauses."
May you like
Ellie’s breath caught in her throat. "How do you know that?"
"Because I own the building his studio is in," Julian said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And because I bought your contract from his holding company at four o'clock this afternoon."
