Chapter 4

Sophie's cough gets worse every minute.

By the time I pull into a gas station, she's wheezing. Her forehead is so hot I can feel it through my sleeve when she presses against me.

"Mommy," she whispers. "My chest hurts."

I unbuckle her and hold her in the front seat, rocking her. She's limp. Too limp for a kid who was running around a party three hours ago.

I need medicine. A doctor. A bed.

I pull out my wallet and try my credit card at the gas station register. Declined. I try the second one. Declined.

Julian.

He froze everything. Every account. Every card.

I have eleven dollars in cash.

I get back in the car and drive toward St. Mary's on Fifth. They treat kids first. But it's forty minutes away.

Sophie moans in the backseat.

My phone rings. For one stupid second, I hope it's Julian calling to say this was all a nightmare.

It's Megan. My best friend since freshman year.

"Megan, thank God. I need help. Sophie's sick and Julian cut me off. Can I bring her to your place? Just for tonight—"

"Riley." Her voice is tight. Careful. "I heard what happened at the party."

"It's not true. The test is fake—"

"I can't get involved." She cuts me off. "Julian's family controls Brad's business. If I take your side, Brad loses everything. I'm sorry. I really am."

She hangs up.

I stare at the phone. Eight years of friendship. She was my bridesmaid. Sophie's godmother.

Gone in fifteen seconds.

Sophie coughs again. Deep. Rough. My stomach drops.

I drive. I don't know where. Just away.

At ten p.m., I pull into a motel outside Hale territory. The sign says forty-nine dollars a night. I have eleven.

I carry Sophie to the front desk anyway. Maybe they'll let me pay in the morning. Maybe I can leave my watch until morning. Julian gave it to me on our third anniversary.

The clerk looks me over. Smeared makeup. Wrinkled dress. Sick kid in my arms.

"Card or cash?" he says.

"I can leave my watch. It's worth—"

"We don't do that." He doesn't even let me finish. "Card or cash. No exceptions."

"Please. My daughter is sick. I just need a bed for a few hours."

He leans back in his chair. "Lady, this isn't a shelter. Card or cash. Try Grover Street. They take walk-ins until midnight."

Sophie lifts her head. Her eyes are glassy. "Mommy, I'm cold."

The clerk glances at her, then back at me. Not a single thing changes in his expression.

"Grover Street," he repeats. "Left at the light."

I walk back to the car. Sophie is shaking now. Not just coughing—shaking. I wrap my blazer around her and blast the heat.

A shelter. He told me to go to a shelter.

Twelve hours ago, I was hosting a catered birthday party in a house with six bedrooms.

I sit in the driver's seat and cry. Just for thirty seconds. I give myself that.

Then I pick up my phone.

Don Kent Silas.

Seven years ago, he told me something I never forgot. We were standing outside a restaurant, and he'd just told me he was in love with me. I turned him down for Julian. Safer. More respectable. Better family connections.

Silas looked at me and said, "If you ever need help—protection, money, anything—you call me. I don't care if it's been ten years."

It's been seven.

I press the call button.

Three rings.

"Riley?" His voice is deep. Alert. He sounds wide awake.

"Silas. I need help." My voice cracks on the last word.

Silas doesn’t answer for two seconds.

"Tell me where you are."

"Highway 9. The Bluebell Motel. My daughter is sick and I have no money. Julian—"

"I know what Don Hale did. I heard an hour ago." His tone shifts. Harder. "Stay exactly where you are. Don't move. I'm sending someone."

"Silas, I don't—"

"Riley." His voice drops low. Steady. "Let me help you. Just this once. You can yell at me tomorrow."

I almost laugh. Almost.

"Okay," I whisper.

Fourteen minutes later, a black SUV pulls into the lot. One of Silas's men opens the back door. Inside: a blanket, water, and kids' fever medicine.

My hands shake as I give Sophie the medicine. She swallows it without fighting. She's too tired to fight.

Silas’s man takes us straight to a private Kent clinic. Not St. Mary’s. Doctors come running the moment we arrive.

A nurse takes Sophie from my arms. "Don Kent called ahead. We've been expecting you."

"Please help her," I say.

They take her through double doors. A nurse leads me to a waiting room with leather chairs and fresh coffee.

I sit down. My legs give out.

My phone buzzes. A text from a number I don't recognize.

*She'll be fine. I'm on my way. —Silas*

I stare at the message until the words blur.

Then another text comes through. This one from Julian.

*Don't use the kid to guilt-trip me. We're divorcing in three days. Hope you found somewhere to sleep tonight.*

I read it twice.

Then I delete his number.

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