Chapter 3

The phone slipped from my fingers, clattering against the hallway floor. My daughter was dying, and James had hung up on me. The world narrowed to a single, desperate thought: I had to get to Emma.

Rain pounded against the windows of our high-rise apartment building, the storm having rolled in suddenly over Lake Michigan. Thunder cracked overhead as I stumbled back to my feet, my mind racing. The emergency stairwell. The maintenance entrance. There had to be another way in.

But the security system James had installed was comprehensive—his way of keeping me safely contained. Like a bird in a gilded cage.

"Mrs. Carter?" Our building's doorman approached cautiously. "Is everything alright?"

"No," I choked out. "My daughter's in the hospital. I need to get inside for her medication."

He shook his head apologetically. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Carter's instructions are clear. I can't override the system without his authorization."

Of course. James had thought of everything.

I ran back to the elevator, jabbing the button for our floor. There had to be another way. The bedroom window—it faced the fire escape. If I could break it...

My body moved with a determination I hadn't felt in years. I grabbed the fire extinguisher from the hallway and, without hesitation, hurled it against our bedroom window. The glass cracked but held. I picked up the extinguisher again, my hands bleeding from where I'd gripped the shattered edges, and swung it with all my strength.

This time, the window exploded outward. Rain and wind immediately whipped into the room, soaking the pristine white bedding James insisted upon. I didn't care. Nothing mattered except getting to Emma.

I climbed through the jagged opening, glass slicing into my palms and knees. The fire escape was slick with rain, the metal treacherous beneath my feet. I descended as quickly as I dared, the wind plastering my clothes to my skin, my hair a wet tangle across my face.

When I reached the street, my legs gave out. I fell to my knees on the rain-soaked pavement, blood mixing with water as it ran down my arms. I had to get up. I had to keep moving. Emma needed me.

I crawled forward, one hand in front of the other. Cars rushed by, splashing more water over me. No one stopped. No one saw the desperate woman crawling through the storm.

Except one person did.

Headlights illuminated my pathetic form, then the screech of brakes. A car door slammed.

"Rachel? My God, Rachel Morgan?"

The voice was familiar, but I couldn't place it through the haze of panic and pain. Strong hands gently lifted me.

"Rachel, it's Michael. Michael Harrison. What happened? You're bleeding everywhere."

Michael Harrison. The name registered dimly. We'd been friends in college, before James. Before everything.

"Emma," I gasped, clutching at his rain-soaked shirt. "Hospital. Please."

"I've got you," he said firmly, helping me into his car. "Chicago Children's?"

I nodded, shaking so violently my teeth chattered. "Heart attack. She's only three."

Michael's face went pale, but his voice remained steady as he pulled into traffic. "I'm on staff there. Cardiology. We'll get you to her."

The drive was a blur. Michael spoke softly, asking questions I couldn't process, his hand occasionally squeezing mine when my sobs threatened to choke me. The warmth of his touch was the only thing tethering me to reality.

When we arrived, he didn't bother with the main entrance. He drove directly to the emergency bay, flashing his ID at security. "Dr. Harrison, Cardiology. This is the mother of Emma Carter."

They rushed us through, Michael's arm around my waist the only thing keeping me upright. In the pediatric ICU, a flurry of activity surrounded a tiny bed. Emma's bed.

"Clear!" a doctor called, and my daughter's small body arched as electricity coursed through her.

"Emma!" I broke free from Michael's grasp, stumbling to her side. Her face was gray, her lips tinged blue. So small. So terribly still.

"Mrs. Carter, please," a nurse tried to pull me back, but I wouldn't be moved.

"I'm here, baby," I whispered, taking her limp hand in mine. "Mommy's here now."

The monitor flatlined, its high-pitched wail cutting through the room like a knife.

"Time of death, 3:42 PM," someone said.

The world stopped. Everything stopped.

I climbed onto the gurney, gathering Emma's tiny body into my arms. She was still warm. How could she be gone if she was still warm? I pressed my face against her hair, breathing in the scent of her strawberry shampoo from that morning.

"Please," I begged, rocking her gently. "Please don't leave me."

The medical team stepped back, giving me space to say goodbye. Michael stood at the foot of the bed, his face twisted with grief for a child he'd never met.

I don't know how long I sat there, holding my daughter's body, before the doors burst open and James strode in. His suit was impeccable, not a hair out of place. No sign of the storm that had soaked me to the bone.

"What's happening?" he demanded, looking around the room with irritation rather than concern. "Rachel, what have you done now?"

I looked up at him, my arms still cradling our daughter's lifeless body, and in that moment, I knew with absolute certainty that whatever had once existed between us was as dead as the child in my arms.