Chapter 2

Palmer's hands gripped the steering wheel as we drove through the early morning mist toward Sacred Heart Children's Hospital. I stared at the fake ID he'd somehow procured overnight—Dr. Sarah Mitchell, pediatric consultant. The photo looked enough like me to pass casual inspection.

"Are you sure about this?" Palmer's voice was tight with concern. "If they catch you—"

"They won't." I smoothed the borrowed medical coat over my clothes, my fingers trembling slightly. "I have to see her, Palmer. I have to know she's really alive."

The hospital loomed ahead, its glass facade reflecting the gray sky. My heart hammered against my ribs as we approached the main entrance. Three years. Three years of mourning a daughter who was breathing, laughing, growing up without me.

Inside, the antiseptic smell hit me like a physical blow. Memories of Emma's birth, of holding her tiny perfect fingers, of the last time I'd seen her before the supposed accident—they all crashed over me at once.

"Pediatric ward, please," I managed to tell the receptionist, flashing the ID with what I hoped was professional confidence.

The elevator ride felt eternal. When the doors opened on the fourth floor, I stepped into a world of soft colors and cheerful murals—a place designed to comfort sick children and their families. The irony wasn't lost on me.

I followed the signs to the hematology unit, my medical coat giving me the invisibility I needed. Nurses bustled past, too busy to question another doctor making rounds.

Then I saw her.

Emma sat in a wheelchair by the large windows overlooking the hospital garden. She was bigger now—three years of growth I'd missed—but unmistakably my daughter. The same dark curls, the same thoughtful expression as she concentrated on a coloring book in her lap.

My knees nearly buckled. She was pale, thinner than she should be, but alive. Beautifully, impossibly alive.

"Emma's doing much better today." A nurse's voice made me freeze. "The latest transfusion really helped."

"That's wonderful news." The responding voice made my blood turn to ice. Teresa Torres emerged from a nearby room, dressed in expensive casual clothes, playing the part of the concerned guardian.

"Aunt Terry!" Emma's face lit up as Teresa approached. "Look what I drew!"

Aunt Terry. The words felt like acid in my throat. I pressed myself against the wall, watching as Teresa knelt beside my daughter's wheelchair.

"It's beautiful, sweetheart. Is that our house?"

"Uh-huh. And that's you and me and Daddy Hudson." Emma pointed to stick figures in the drawing. "But I still don't understand why my real mommy can't visit. The other kids' mommies come see them."

Teresa's smile faltered for just a moment. "Remember what we talked about? Your real mommy is... very sick. She can't be around other people right now."

"But when will she get better?"

"I don't know, honey. Maybe never."

The casual cruelty of the lie hit me like a physical blow. I bit down on my knuckle to keep from crying out, tasting blood.

"Can we go to the garden?" Emma asked. "I want to see if the flowers are blooming."

"Of course."

I watched them head toward the elevator, then followed at a distance. In the garden, Emma's wheelchair moved along the paved paths between flower beds. She pointed excitedly at early spring blooms while Teresa checked her phone with obvious boredom.

This was my moment. While Teresa was distracted, I could approach Emma, tell her who I really was—

"Excuse me!" A security guard's voice boomed across the garden. "Ma'am, stop right there!"

I froze as two guards approached, their faces grim. One held a photograph—my photograph.

"Valery Murphy," the first guard said. "You're not supposed to be on hospital grounds. We have strict orders."

Orders. From whom? The question burned in my mind as I realized Teresa had been expecting this—had prepared for the possibility that I might find Emma.

"There's been a mistake," I started, but the guard was already reaching for his radio.

Suddenly, a crash echoed from the parking area—the sound of metal hitting concrete. Palmer had driven his car straight into a row of trash cans, creating enough chaos to draw the guards' attention.

"Go!" he shouted from across the garden. "Now!"

I ran, my medical coat flying behind me as I sprinted toward the parking garage. Behind me, I could hear Emma's confused voice: "What's happening? Who was that lady?"

Teresa's response followed me as I fled: "No one important, sweetheart. Just someone who got lost."

Palmer was waiting with the engine running when I reached the car. We peeled out of the parking garage just as more security guards emerged from the building.

"Did you see her?" Palmer asked as we put distance between ourselves and the hospital.

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. Emma was alive, but she was also a prisoner—kept from me by lies and manipulation. And now I knew Teresa had been prepared for my discovery, which meant this conspiracy ran deeper than I'd imagined.

"Palmer," I said finally, my voice steady with newfound determination. "I need you to help me find Officer Jamie Carr. If Hudson and Teresa fabricated Emma's death, someone had to falsify that police report. And I'm going to make them tell me the truth."