Close to the old records corridor.
“Did anyone call her?”
“Several times. Phone goes straight to voicemail.”
My mother’s expression hardened. “Convenient.”
“Very,” Elena said.
I swallowed.
“What about the medication tray?”
Elena’s eyes met mine.
“That is another problem.”
I waited.
“The tray was processed as contaminated waste before anyone secured it.”
“By whom?”
“A night orderly says Sophie told him Dr. Bennett wanted it cleared immediately because you had knocked it over during a sterile procedure.”
I closed my eyes.
Every thread seemed to lead back to her, but none of them explained why she had woven the net in the first place.
“What does she want?” I whispered.
Neither woman answered.
Because none of us knew.
That afternoon, sleep came in shallow, uneasy stretches.
Each time I drifted off, I heard the monitor again. Not the soft beep beside my bed, but the long, unbroken note from the delivery room.
Flatline.
A sound like a road ending.
When I woke near evening, the room was dim. My mother slept upright in the chair, arms crossed, her chin tucked to her chest. A vase of pale yellow roses stood on the windowsill. The card was unsigned.
For reasons I could not explain, the sight of them filled me with unease.
Cameron hated yellow roses. He said they looked apologetic.
I reached for the card with clumsy fingers.
