“Stable. Some bruises, a mild concussion, and a fractured wrist. But he won’t answer questions unless we call you.”
I should have refused. I should have told them to contact child services, the police—anyone else. But a child was asking for me by name from a hospital bed, and I couldn’t just ignore that.
Twenty minutes later, I walked into St. Agnes with damp hair, mismatched socks, and a heart pounding so hard I felt it in my throat. A nurse named Maribel met me at the desk.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “He’s in room twelve. Before you go in, I need to ask—do you recognize the name Oliver Vance?”
“No.”
“Do you know a woman named Rachel Vance?”
The name hit like ice water. I hadn’t heard it in twelve years. Rachel had been my college roommate, my closest friend—and eventually the person who disappeared from my life after one terrible night, one accusation, and a silence we never repaired.
“I knew her,” I whispered.
Maribel studied me. “Oliver says she’s his mother.”
My knees nearly gave way. I followed her down the hall.
