I set down the bag and reached for my phone. I punched in my father's number. It rang four times and went to voicemail again. This time I left a message: "It's Brynn," I said, knowing that my dad couldn't always tell my voice from Dani's. "I have some strange news, something I need to talk to you about as soon as possible. Dani doesn’t know anything about it yet, so don't call her, call me. It's urgent, Dad. Please, I need to hear from you as soon as possible."

I put the phone down and debated my next move. I should find a hotel, but there was no way I was going to sleep now. I felt too wired and amped up. I needed to know more about my mother's life. I pulled her ID out of her bag, put the address into the car's navigation system, and then started the car.

My mom lived ten minutes from the hospital and a few blocks from the infamous corner of Haight and Ashbury, where the sixties hippie movement had once flourished. Now it was an eclectic neighborhood of cafés, tattoo parlors, and vintage clothing stores. Mixed in with the old businesses were trendy juice bars, tea shops, an art gallery, and an organic market. Almost all the businesses were closed, with the exception of a few bars and restaurants.

As I left the business area, I drove a few more blocks, then turned down my mother's street. My pulse raced as I parked in front of her house, which was a three-story Victorian-style building. There was a gray truck parked in the driveway. I wondered if that belonged to my mother or to her tenant, although I didn't see lights on anywhere in the house.

I grabbed her keys and got out of the car, a shiver running down my spine. It was quiet, almost too quiet. I didn't know exactly where my mother had been shot. The street was very dark now, the nearest streetlight twenty yards away. The thought of accidentally walking through her blood made me sick to my stomach, so I moved quickly toward the steps leading up to her property. As I neared the front of the building, I saw a door off to the left side. That must belong to the studio apartment. I went up another set of stairs to her porch.

When I reached the door, I hesitated. What was I doing here? Was I really going to enter her house? She might have once been my mother, but that had been a very long time ago. She was a stranger to me now.

On the other hand, she'd asked the nurse to call me. She'd wanted to apologize. She couldn't tell me why she'd faked her death, but maybe there were clues in this house. I took out the keys and tried them one at a time. On the third attempt, I got lucky. The door opened.