But certainty had already cost me eight months with Emma. I would not make the same mistake again.
“Where did you get the notebook?” I asked.
“Emma gave it to me three days ago.”
My eyes opened.
“Three days ago?”
“She came to my office. She was feverish, but she insisted it was only exhaustion. I told her to go to the hospital.”
“Why didn’t she?”
Claire looked toward the intensive care unit.
“Because she believed someone there would be waiting for her.”
“At St. Mercy?”
“She didn’t say which hospital.”
“Who brought her in last night?”
“A taxi driver found her collapsed near a bus stop,” Marcus said. “No purse. No phone. Just an identification card in her coat pocket.”
Claire’s face changed.
“What?”
“Emma’s phone was in her hand when she left my office three days ago.”
“Maybe she lost it,” I said.
“She wouldn’t have gone anywhere without her emergency folder.”
“What folder?”
“Medical history, insurance documents, birth plan, copies of the letters. She carried it every time she traveled farther than a few blocks.”
Marcus stood. “I’ll check with hospital security and the taxi company.”
Before he left, Claire said, “There’s something else.”
We both looked at her.
“The last time Emma came to see me, she said she had finally discovered why someone wanted her gone.”
My pulse slowed.
“Why?”
“She didn’t tell me. She said she needed to confirm it first.”
“With whom?”
“She only said, ‘Someone who knew Vincent before Chicago.’”
I thought of the years before Chicago.
There were not many people left from that time.
My father was dead.
My mother had disappeared from my life when I was twelve.
The men who had known me then were either gone, retired, or too loyal to speak to outsiders.
Except one.
My uncle Anthony.
He had raised me after my father died. He had taught me that trust was earned through obedience and fear was more reliable than affection.
He had also introduced me to Brooke.
“Did Emma mention Anthony Moretti?” I asked.
Claire shook her head.
“No names.”
Marcus’s phone rang before he reached the door.
He answered, listened, and looked back at me.
“What is it?” I asked.
He ended the call.
“Emma’s awake.”
I reached her room before the elevator doors had fully opened.
A nurse stopped me outside the intensive care unit.
“She’s conscious, but weak. The ventilator has been removed. You can see her for a few minutes, but she must remain calm.”
“I understand.”
“Mr. Moretti, her condition is still serious. Do not pressure her with questions.”
I nodded.
The room was dim.
Emma looked even smaller against the white sheets than she had in the emergency department. Her skin was pale, and dark shadows rested beneath her eyes. A clear oxygen tube ran beneath her nose. Machines surrounded her, but the steady rhythm of her heart filled the space between us.
Her eyes were closed when I entered.
I stopped beside the bed.
For a long moment, I could not speak.
Every apology I had imagined sounded useless now.
I had spent years believing words mattered only when they were backed by power.
Standing beside Emma, I understood that some words mattered because they required surrender.
“Emma.”
Her eyes opened.
She looked at me without moving.
I pulled a chair closer and sat.
“Our daughter is alive,” I said. “She’s stable. She’s very small, but the doctors are taking care of her.”
Emma’s eyes filled with tears.
“Girl?” she whispered.
Her voice was barely audible.
“Yes.”
A faint smile touched her lips.
“I knew.”
“You knew?”
“I felt it.”
I swallowed.
“She held my finger.”
Emma looked toward the window.
“You saw her.”
“Yes.”
Another tear slipped toward her temple.
I wanted to wipe it away.
I did not touch her.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Her eyes closed.
“I know that isn’t enough.”
