Chapter 3

The doctor's face told me everything before he spoke a word. I'd spent enough time in hospitals with Michael to recognize that expression—the careful neutrality that couldn't quite mask the sorrow beneath. My body went cold, the world narrowing to just his face and the words I knew were coming.

"Mrs. Hayes," he said softly, "I'm so sorry. We did everything we could."

I heard myself make a sound—not quite a scream, not quite a whimper—something primal and broken that I didn't recognize as my own voice.

"Both of them?" I whispered, though I already knew.

He nodded, his eyes reflecting a compassion that felt like sandpaper against my raw nerves. "Your mother-in-law passed first. Your daughter... her injuries were too severe. She never regained consciousness, which means she didn't suffer."

Didn't suffer. The words echoed in my head like a cruel joke. My Lily, my sunshine, my reason for breathing—gone. Eleanor, who had been more mother to me than mother-in-law—gone. And Michael, who should have been here holding my hand through this nightmare, was still nowhere to be found.

A nurse appeared beside me, steadying me as my knees buckled. "Would you like to see them?"

I nodded, unable to form words.

She led me to a quiet room where they lay. Eleanor looked peaceful, the blood cleaned from her silver hair, her hands folded over her chest. And Lily—my beautiful, vibrant Lily—looked like she was sleeping, her dark lashes resting against her too-pale cheeks. Her favorite yellow hair ribbon was still tangled in her curls.

I sat between them, taking one of each of their hands in mine. Lily's fingers were still warm. I pressed them to my lips, memorizing the feel of them, knowing these would be the last moments I would ever hold my daughter's hand.

"Mrs. Hayes," a gentle voice said from the doorway. A woman in a dark suit stood there, a folder clutched to her chest. "I'm Kate Wilson from the organ donation center. I know this is an impossibly difficult time, but..."

I looked up, something crystallizing through my grief. "Organ donation?"

"Yes. Your daughter's organs could help save other children."

I looked down at Lily's peaceful face. My daughter, who insisted we stop to help every injured bird, who gave her favorite teddy to a crying child at the park, who told me she wanted to be a doctor like Daddy so she could "fix people."

"Yes," I said, surprising myself with the steadiness in my voice. "She would want that."

I signed the papers, still holding Lily's hand. As the coordinator left, I bent to whisper in my daughter's ear.

"You're going to keep helping people, baby. Just like you always wanted."

* * *

The next days passed in a fog. I arranged two funerals without Michael. He had finally appeared at the hospital hours after they died, disheveled and reeking of expensive cologne, spouting excuses about his phone dying and meetings running late. I barely heard him. The husband I thought I knew would have moved heaven and earth to be with his family in crisis. That man, I now realized, had never existed.

I was sitting at our dining room table, surrounded by funeral home brochures, when I remembered the bills needed paying. Michael had always handled our finances—another thing he'd insisted I shouldn't "worry my pretty little head about." But now, with anger burning through my grief, I logged into our accounts.

What I found stopped my breath.

Thousands of dollars spent at Tiffany's. A five-star hotel downtown. Restaurants I'd never heard of with bills that could have covered Lily's daycare for months. All on dates when Michael had claimed to be working late shifts.

With trembling fingers, I scrolled through month after month of similar charges. Designer boutiques. Weekend trips I knew nothing about. Cash withdrawals large enough to make me dizzy.

None of it was for me. None of it was for Lily.

I dug deeper, finding statements from accounts I didn't know existed. One transfer caught my eye—$25,000 to someone named "Amanda P."

The name meant nothing to me, but the date did. It was the day before the shooting.

I reached for the phone, dialing the number for our family accountant.

"Mrs. Hayes," he answered, surprise evident in his voice. "How can I help you?"

"Who is Amanda Parker?" I asked, the name coming to me suddenly, a memory of Michael mentioning an old college friend.

The silence on the line stretched too long.

"Mrs. Hayes... I think you should speak with your husband about this."

"Tell me," I insisted, my voice harder than I'd ever heard it. "Who is she, and why has my husband been sending her thousands of dollars for years?"

His sigh carried through the phone. "Amanda Parker is... well, I assumed you knew. Dr. Hayes described her as a special friend. The payments began about three years ago."

Three years. Since Lily was two. While I was raising our daughter, keeping our home, supporting his career, my husband had been funding another life with another woman.

I hung up without another word, staring at the bank statements spread before me. A terrible suspicion was forming in my mind, connecting dots I hadn't even known existed.

Detective Miller had said the shooting wasn't random.

My family had been targeted.

And now I knew exactly where my husband had been when I was desperately trying to reach him.

With Amanda Parker.