Inside the office, May had worked her way out from under the blanket. She crawled across the carpet with great purpose, grabbed the edge of the low credenza, and pulled herself up. On the bottom shelf behind a stack of old annual reports, sat a small walnut box. May reached for it.
May, no. Too late. The box hit the floor. The lid sprang open and a thin, sweet melody spilled out. Silent night. May gasped with joy. Then the music stopped right in the middle of a note.
Hadley dropped to her knees. The tiny brass hinge had split. She pressed it back into place. It wouldn’t hold. Her hands were shaking. It had been sitting behind those reports under a layer of dust. She could put it back, turn it to face the wall. It might be weeks before anyone noticed. She looked at May. May looked back at her, wide-eyed, waiting to see what her mother would do.
Hadley tore a work ticket from her clipboard and wrote in careful block letters, “I broke this. My daughter pulled it down. I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for it or fix it, whichever you’d rather. Hadley Rowan, Night Crew.”
She added her phone number. Then she set the box back on the shelf and propped the note against it, neat and square, like a confession.
In the dark, Jude didn’t breathe. She had no idea anyone had seen. That was when May coughed. It wasn’t a normal cough. It was harsh and hollow, like a seal barking. Then came a thin, high whistle every time she pulled in air. Hadley snatched her up. May’s ribs were sinking with each breath.
Okay. Okay, baby. Mama’s got you.
She fumbled for her phone. Her fingers wouldn’t work. Behind her, the door of the dark conference room opened. Hadley spun around so fast she almost lost her balance. A man stood in the doorway of the dark conference room. Tall, dark overcoat, mid-30s. She knew the face from the framed photo in the lobby. Jude Tolbert.
The first thing out of her mouth was not a cry for help. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll finish the floor. I swear I just…
Which hospital?
