Chapter 4

I tore toward the nurses' station.

"Where's my mom? The patient in bed 32?"

The nurse on duty looked at me, her lips working before any sound came.

"Frieda, your mother insisted on checking out half an hour ago."

"We couldn't stop her. She said she didn't want any more treatment."

"She also said... not to let you wear yourself out."

"Where did she go?"

The nurse handed me an envelope.

"She asked me to give this to you."

I tore it open. Inside was my mother's crooked handwriting.

"Frieda, sweetheart, I know the three hundred thousand is gone. I heard you on the phone in the hallway."

"Five years. I've been a weight on you for five years. Watching you beg people, watching you swallow Martin's moods for my sake, hurts me worse than dying."

"This broken body of mine wouldn't last many years even with a new kidney. Save the money. Live a good life from now on."

"Don't come looking for me. I've gone home."

I clutched the note and ran out of the hospital.

In the cab my hands shook so hard I could barely hold the phone. I dialed my mother's number again and again. Powered off.

Again and again. Nothing but that dead line.

The cab stopped at the gate of the old complex, and I half-crawled, half-ran up the stairs.

The stairwell sensor light was broken, and the dark swallowed everything.

The instant I pushed the door open, a thick, choking reek of gas hit me full in the face.

"Mom!"

Coughing, tears streaming, I lunged in, wrenched the valve shut, threw every window open.

Cold air poured in and scattered the poison.

My mother was lying on the bed in that red sweater. The one I'd bought her last year with my first bonus.

Her face was ashen. Her body had gone stiff.

"Mom... Mom, open your eyes... Mom, look at me..."

I held her and cried until my throat tasted of blood.

But she would never stroke my hair again, never call me sweetheart again.

Three days later.

Southridge Cemetery.

I told no one.

Just me, alone, watching the earth cover the urn inch by inch.

In the photo on the headstone, she was still smiling.

Somewhere inside me, something died for good.

From this day on, I had no soft spot left.

The night of the burial, I called Christian Chavez from the cemetery gate.

Every transfer record, every screenshot of those chats, packed up and sent over.

The phone buzzed nonstop in my pocket.

Martin.

Back from his trip.

I answered.

His voice still carried that same lofty tone.

"Frieda, I just got off the plane. Went to the hospital and didn't see you or your mom."

"The nurses said she was discharged?"

A pause, and his tone dropped.

"Are you sulking at me again? Hiding your mother on purpose to force money out of me?"

"I just finished dealing with Serena's situation. I'm exhausted. I don't have time for these games."

I listened to him, and I laughed once.

"Playing hard to get?"

"Martin, the bank statement showing you moved that three hundred thousand? I've already pulled it. The police report and the lawyer's letter go to your company's front desk first thing tomorrow morning."

On the other end, his breath caught.

"Are you insane? You went to the police?"

"Frieda, what the hell do you want?"

I ignored him.

"You wanted to see my mom, didn't you?"

"Southridge Cemetery. Section C, row 37."

The wind blew in from the direction of the headstone. I looked at that photo, my voice flat.

"She's right here. You're too late."