At 3:07 a.m., my phone shattered the silence like a warning from another world.
I woke instantly, disoriented, staring into the darkness of my apartment while snow battered the windows hard enough to sound like fists against glass. Chicago had disappeared beneath the blizzard, every streetlight outside swallowed by white.
Then I heard my mother’s voice.
Weak. Trembling. Terrified.
“Lena… help… me…”
The call cut off.
No goodbye. No explanation. Just dead silence.
For a second, I couldn’t move. My pulse thundered so violently it hurt. My mother never called in the middle of the night. Never sounded afraid. And she especially never asked for help.
She lived three hundred miles away in Cedar Hollow with my stepfather, Richard Hale.
Richard with the polished suits.
Richard with the expensive smile.
Richard who shook hands like a politician and lied like breathing was part of his bloodstream.
I called back immediately.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Again.
Straight to voicemail.
By the seventh call, my hands were shaking. By the tenth, I already knew something was horribly wrong. On the thirteenth attempt, someone finally answered.
Not my mother.
A nurse.
“St. Agnes Hospital,” she said cautiously.
My stomach dropped. “Where’s my mother?”
“Are you family?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
