“TAKE THE PLATE AWAY. SHE’S NOT EATING UNTIL SHE APOLOGIZES,” MY BOSS’S FIANCÉE SAID TO HIS EIGHT-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER—BUT I KNEW WHY THE LITTLE GIRL HAD BEEN HIDING BREAD IN HER SLEEVES.

The hospital waiting room smelled of bleach and stale coffee.

Ivy was asleep, her small head resting in my lap. I gently stroked her hair, staring at the ticking clock on the wall. It was 2:00 AM.

Daniel was pacing near the emergency doors, running his hands through his hair. The train ticket and the silver bracelet were secured in his breast pocket.

Vanessa had insisted on coming to the hospital. She sat on the far side of the waiting room, her red dress looking stark and out of place under the harsh fluorescent lights. She had her arms crossed, glaring at me.

She stood up and walked over.

“You can go home now, Raina,” she said coldly. “I will take over watching my stepdaughter.”

I didn’t move. “I’m staying until we hear about Beatrice.”

“You are a paid employee,” Vanessa hissed, leaning in close so Daniel couldn’t hear. “And as of tomorrow, you are unemployed. Do you understand me? You’ll be lucky if I don’t blacklist you in this city.”

“Go ahead,” I whispered back. “Because whatever you did to that old woman is about to come out in her blood work.”

Vanessa flinched. A tiny, imperceptible crack in her armor.

Before she could respond, the emergency room doors swung open. A doctor in green scrubs walked out, looking grim.

Daniel rushed toward him. “My mother. Is she okay?”

“She’s stabilized,” the doctor said. “But Mr. Mercer, your mother hasn’t suffered a stroke or a heart attack. She is profoundly overmedicated.”

Daniel looked stunned. “Overmedicated? She takes a mild blood pressure pill.”

The doctor frowned, pulling out his clipboard. “Her toxicology screen shows dangerously high levels of Lorazepam. A heavy sedative. Has she been prescribed sleep aids?”

“No,” Daniel said.

My heart hammered in my chest. I looked at Vanessa. She was clutching her designer purse so tightly her knuckles were white.

“I need to use the restroom,” Vanessa blurted out, turning on her heel.

“Wait,” I said, standing up. I carefully shifted Ivy onto the waiting room chairs and followed Vanessa into the hallway.

She was rushing toward the exit, not the restroom.

“Vanessa!” I called out.

She ignored me, pushing open the heavy stairwell doors. I ran after her, catching the door before it closed.

She was frantically digging through her purse on the landing.

“Looking for this?” I asked.

Vanessa spun around.

In my hand, I held a small, orange prescription bottle. I had pulled it from the pocket of her wool coat back at the house when I was grabbing jackets for the ambulance ride.

The label clearly read: Vanessa Mercer. Lorazepam.