Chapter 2
I should have said no. The truth got out before I could stop it. "I'm her husband."
She glanced at her screen. "It says ex-husband."
I held her gaze until she looked back down. "Room number."
"347."
I pushed that door open hard enough that Marco nearly walked into my back.
The woman in that bed barely resembled the one who had walked out of our home three months ago, proud and furious and beautiful in a way that made grown men in that room forget their own names. Now she looked like something the world had been slowly starving. An IV ran into each arm. A ring of dark bruising circled one wrist, the kind that comes from being gripped too hard, not from any fall. Her collarbones pressed against skin gone pale and thin, exhaustion carved so deep into her face it looked structural. And even unconscious, one hand rested protectively across the small, gentle curve of her stomach.
My son. My daughter. Ours.
My knees actually buckled. I caught myself on the bed rail.
Dr. Avery Bennett came in a moment later, chart in hand, calm in the specific way doctors get calm when the news is bad and they've learned that panic helps no one. "She's severely dehydrated, malnourished, dangerously iron deficient. She received little to no prenatal care in sixteen weeks. The baby's heartbeat is strong. Your ex-wife is in critical condition."
Every sentence landed like a separate blow. "What happened to her?"
Dr. Bennett hesitated the way people hesitate when they already suspect the answer and don't want to be the one who says it out loud. "She wouldn't tell us much before she lost consciousness. But it's clear to me that someone close to her made sure she never got the help she needed. This isn't neglect that happens by accident, Mr. Mercer. This is neglect somebody managed."
My pulse was a drumbeat in my ears. "What do you mean, managed?"
She handed me a sealed evidence bag instead of answering directly. Elena's purse, logged and tagged. "It came in with her belongings."
May you like
Inside was a folded envelope. Across the front, in Elena's handwriting, the same handwriting that used to leave me notes on the bathroom mirror, five words that emptied every drop of blood from my body.
For Luke — Trust No One.
