Chapter 3

I didn't sleep that night. I sat in the wooden chair until the sky outside the window began to lighten, a thin gray line of dawn creeping above the Manhattan skyline. The clinic statement stayed in my hand the whole time, the paper warming to my skin, the corners beginning to soften where I'd been gripping it.

At 6:47, a nurse came in to check my vitals. Her name was Priya, a small woman with kind eyes and a professional smile. She saw the shards of the vase on the carpet and froze, the clipboard in her hand dropping a few inches.

"Mrs. Vance?" Her voice was careful. "What happened?"

"Knocked something over," I said, keeping my voice even. "I'm sorry. I'll clean it up."

Priya didn't look convinced. She glanced at the thin red line on my temple, then at the crooked IV pole, then back at the shards. For a moment, I saw her weighing whether to push further. A small woman herself, someone who'd probably learned to read danger in the rooms she walked into.

Let her miss it. I would handle it my own way.

"Let me get someone to clean that," she said finally. "And I'll bring you a fresh gown. Your other one has a little blood on it."

I nodded, grateful for the excuse. She left and returned a few minutes later with a clean gown and a broom, and I let her take the soiled one while I changed. The paper stayed with me, folded into a small square, hidden against my palm. I kept it with me even in the bathroom, even when I splashed cold water on my face and rehearsed what I'd say to the woman downstairs.

The woman who was still waiting.

By 7:30, I was dressed, if you could call it that. The fresh gown was the same thin ivory cotton, open at the back, designed for maximum vulnerability. I'd brought a robe with me to the hospital, a soft gray cashmere thing that Jonah had bought me last winter. I wrapped it around my shoulders, feeling a little more human.

My phone buzzed as I was tying the belt. Another message from the unknown number.

*Breakfast? There's a diner across the street. I'll save you a booth.*

I stared at the message, hate rising in me. She was playing with me. Circling, like a shark sizing up a swimmer. She'd never left the building. She'd been waiting all night for me to make a move.

I typed a reply, my words short and sharp.

*Give me forty-five minutes.*