I moved my chair closer to his so I could watch the video. There was a lot of activity on a stage, with people rushing to aid the man on the ground. Then a woman took charge, giving CPR, barking out commands to others. She worked relentlessly on the man until the EMTs arrived. And then she stepped back and looked at the camera.

It was like I was looking at myself. It was different seeing her now, with her eyes wide open. She was alive. She was real. She was a freaking hero.

"Do you want me to play it again?" Kade asked.

I shook my head. "No. I've seen enough. I need another cookie."

He pushed the bag across the table. "What now?" he asked.

I devoured the cookie in two bites. "I need to call Inspector Greenman back."

"You should send him the link to the video. It's possible that the video didn't just bring your father and Vicky to the city. It also brought the shooter."

"You're right. The note left on the porch said: You know why. Whoever she ran away from twenty years ago must have found her because she was caught on the news saving someone else's life. That's tragically ironic."

"Yes, it is. And I hope that someone isn't related to you."

"I don't think it's my dad or Vicky, even though I don't like her. It has to be someone else."

"It probably is. I hope that video showed you another side of your mother, one that is generous, brave, and strong."

"It brought her back to life in a different way," I admitted. "The woman in the hospital bed is lifeless. She almost doesn't seem real. But my mom was alive on that video." I blew out a breath. "I'm suddenly exhausted."

"You should find a hotel. It's almost ten."

That idea felt like it would require too much energy. "I'm going to stay here. I'm tired. The locks are new, and it doesn't seem like someone would come back tonight."

"You can't be sure of that. But if you want to stay here, I'll sleep in the guest room."

"I can't keep letting you do that. This isn't your problem, Kade."

"It is my problem. I still need to know how our mothers are connected."

"The mattress in the guest bedroom was slashed."

"I'll throw a blanket over it. Torn-up things aren't a problem for me. You've seen my art and where I'm living."

"Which feels more like an artist's studio. Is that how your place at home looks?"

"Yes. But working where I live is fine for me. I don't sleep a lot, anyway. I do my best work at night."

"Can't get your brain to shut off, huh?"

"Always been a problem," he admitted.

"Then let's go downstairs to your place. I'll sleep on the couch. You can work."

"You wouldn't be comfortable."