“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.
In room twelve, a small boy sat upright in bed, his left wrist wrapped, dark hair clinging to his forehead. His face was pale, his lip split, and his eyes—wide, scared, painfully familiar—locked onto mine the instant I entered.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he whispered, “Nora?”
My mouth went dry. “Yes.”
His chin trembled. “Mom said if anything bad happened, I had to find the lady with two eyes…”
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