When I left the hospital, the cold, damp air hit my face, and I drew in a breath of relief. It felt better just to be outside, away from the woman who was my mother and the machines that were keeping her alive. I got into my car and debated my next move.

Clearly, I had some calls to make. I just didn't know who to call first. The more information I could get, the easier it would be to talk to my sister and my father.

I punched in Inspector Greenman's number, relieved when he answered. "This is Brynn Landry. You called me earlier."

"Yes," he said. "I have some questions for you about your mother, Laura Hawthorne. Can you come to the station?"

"Uh, I guess. I'm at St. Mary's Hospital. I'm not from this area. Where's the station?"

"Less than ten minutes away."

"All right," I said, texting myself the address he rattled off. "I'll be there soon."

As I set down the phone, it vibrated with an incoming call. Danielle's name flashed across the screen. I wasn't ready to talk to my sister, so I let it go to voicemail. Then I played her message back.

"Everything is perfect with the baby," Dani said with excitement. "And it's a boy. Can you believe it? I'm going to have a son."

I smiled at her words, tears filling my eyes.

"I'm a little sorry I'm not carrying twins," Dani continued. "Growing up with you was so special. But everything is good, so I can't be greedy. Steve and I just got back from a celebratory dinner. Call me when you can. Love you."

"Love you, too," I whispered.

I wanted to call and congratulate her, to share in this moment that had taken so many years to get to. But Dani would ask where I was, what I was doing, and I didn't want to tell her tonight, not while she was feeling so good about everything. I'd call her tomorrow. Hopefully, by then, I'd have more answers.

I sent her a quick text. So happy for you. I'm in a movie now. I'll talk to you tomorrow. I can't wait to celebrate with you.

Dani sent back a smiley face in response, and I put down the phone.

Then I drove to the police station, hoping the bad news wasn't about to get worse.

CHAPTER THREE

Inspector Alan Greenman looked like a man who had once been on a football field. He had broad shoulders and a stocky build that strained the fit of his gray suit. His face was square, his hair and beard were brown and peppered with gray. He ushered me into an interview room, which made me nervous. I felt like I was guilty of something instead of just wanting to get information about a victim. As we sat down across from each other at a long, narrow table, he gave me a speculative look, then said, "How is your mother doing?"