Chapter 4

"I hate you," I said.

Blood came with the words, running from the corner of my mouth down my jaw.

Elliot pressed his hands over his head, a sound tearing out of him. In the distance, a siren was already wailing, growing closer.

The emergency team loaded me onto a gurney. The ceiling of the hallway streamed past above me. A doctor cut my clothes open with shears, pressed defibrillator pads to my chest. My body arched off the table with each shock.

An oxygen mask was fitted over my face. The world went black.

When I opened my eyes again, there was only white ceiling.

An IV drip tracked down a clear line into the back of my hand.

Elliot was sitting in the chair beside my bed, dress shirt open at the collar, jaw dark with stubble, dried blood on his cuffs. He stood the moment he saw my eyes open.

"You're awake."

I looked away from him, toward the window. The plant on the sill had lost all its leaves.

He pulled the chair closer and leaned forward.

"The baby didn't survive. There was severe hemorrhaging during delivery. The doctors had to perform a hysterectomy to stop the bleeding."

I didn't speak. I curled my fingers under the blanket until my nails bit into my palm.

Elliot reached out and gripped my shoulder.

"What matters is that you're alive. We can adopt someday. I've already cut Vivian off — her accounts are frozen, she's been told to leave. I won't see her again."

I looked at him.

"Get out."

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He picked up the insulated mug from the bedside table, unscrewed the lid, and poured a cup of warm water.

"Drink something."

He held it toward my lips.

I raised my arm and knocked it out of his hand. The mug hit the floor and cracked down the side, water spreading across the tile.

The door opened.

Vivian walked in, wearing a hospital gown with pale stripes. Her eyes swept the water on the floor, then moved to Elliot.

"Is she doing better?"

Elliot turned and slapped her across the face.

The sound was sharp. Vivian staggered and fell, both hands flying up to cover her cheek.

"Who told you to come in here?"

"Get out," he said. "Now."

Vivian wrapped her arms around his leg. "You said you'd take care of me. You can't just throw me away — where am I supposed to go?"

He reached down, grabbed the back of her collar, and dragged her out of the room. Her screaming echoed down the corridor, then faded.

The door swung shut.

I pushed back the blanket and pulled the IV needle out of my hand. I tried to shift my leg — the one in the cast — and a bolt of agony tore through the bone. The world went gray. I fell back against the mattress, breathless, helpless.

The door opened again.

Elliot walked back in. He went straight to the bedside drawer and removed two cloth restraint straps. I fought him — thrashing, clawing — but he had me pinned down within seconds. He bound both my wrists to the iron rails of the headboard.

He stood over me, breathing hard.

"You're not leaving this room until you're healed. That's final."

He walked out. The lock turned with a click.

That evening, Elliot came back carrying a stainless steel tray.

He undid the restraint on my right hand and set the tray on the bedside table. A bowl of plain broth. A spoon.

"Eat."

He held the spoon toward me.

I turned my head away.

He set the bowl down, gripped my jaw, and forced my mouth open. I twisted against him; the spoon scraped the corner of my lips, and the broth ran down my chin into my collar. He dropped the bowl. It hit the wall and shattered, broth spattering across the floor.

He didn't say anything. He replaced the restraint strap, knotted it, and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

The corridor lights dimmed with the hour.

Then came the faint sound of the lock turning — slowly, quietly.

Vivian slipped through the door. She moved to my bedside and sat down, a manila envelope in her hands.

"You're really in a bad way, aren't you, Mara."

She pulled a folded document from the envelope and held it up where I could see it.

A paternity report.

The results were printed in stark black type: Mara Holloway was not the biological daughter of the deceased.

"My mother was one of the people your father funded — a scholarship student. That's all she ever was to him." Vivian's voice was light, almost conversational. "She stole one of his old toothbrushes and had someone run a fake test. She coached me on what to say before she died. And you — all of you — believed every word."

She laughed behind her hand.

The sound carried down the hall — too loud.

The door slammed open.

Elliot stood in the doorway, his face white as paper. He was staring at the document in Vivian's hand.

"What did you just say?"

He crossed the room in three strides.

Vivian scrambled back, the paper slipping from her fingers to the floor.

"Elliot, I—"

He grabbed her throat with both hands and drove her down onto the floor. His whole body shook.