Chapter 13:


    “She’s persistent,” Belle said, popping a slice of apple into her mouth. “Probably realized her credit card limit isn’t as high as she thought. Or maybe she’s using Effie as an excuse again. You know how she gets when she wants attention.”


    Grayson’s thumb hovered over the screen. He remembered thest time Isolde had called him frantically. It had been because a pipe burst in the guest bathroom.


    “She’s just trying to leverage the situation,” Grayson said. “She knows Kaiden is sick. She wants me to feel guilty for not being there for Effie, even though Effie is perfectly fine.”


    He pressed the power button, holding it down until the screen went ck.


    “There,” he said. “Peace and quiet.”


    At Mount Sinai, the automatic doors slid open. Isolde didn’t wait for the cab to stoppletely. She threw a wad of cash at the partition—her emergency money—and bolted.


    “Help!” she screamed, her voice cracking as she burst into the ER. “My daughter can’t breathe!”


    A triage nurse looked up, saw the cyanosis around Effie’s mouth, and hit a red button under the desk.


    “Code Blue, Pediatric ER!”


    Doctors swarmed. They took Effie from Isolde’s arms. Isolde felt the loss of weight immediately, a phantom limb sensation that made her knees buckle.


    “Ma’am, you have to stay here,” a nurse said, guiding her to a stic chair.


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    “She has pneumonia history,” Isolde choked out. “She’s allergic to penicillin.”


    “We got it. Let them work.”


    Isolde sat. She stared at the swinging doors where her daughter had disappeared. Her hands were empty. They were cold.


    She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. She looked at the contact name.


    Husband.


    She stared at it until the letters blurred. He was sitting in a warm room somewhere, probably holding Belle’s hand, probably worrying about Kaiden’s tummy ache. He had turned off his phone while his daughter gasped for air.


    Isolde’s thumb moved.


    She deleted “Husband.” She typed in a new name.


    Target.


    Outside, thunder rolled across the city, shaking the ss of the hospital waiting room.


    The first few hours at Mount Sinai were a blur of beeping machines and hushed, urgent voices. By dawn, they had stabilized Effie, but a grim-faced resident pulled Isolde aside.


    “Her oxygen saturation is still dangerously low,” he exined, his eyes tired but kind. “Our pediatric pulmonology unit ispletely full—we’ve had a surge of RSV cases. The only hospital with an open pediatric ECMO machine and a specialist on call tonight is Lenox Hill. I know it’s not ideal to move her, but their equipment is state-of-the-art. It’s our best shot.”


    The name hit Isolde like a physical blow. Lenox Hill. Of course. The hospital of the rich, the one the Lancasters practically owned a wing of. She would have to walk into his territory, a supplicant, for the sake of her daughter. The humiliation was a bitter pill, but she swallowed it without hesitating.


    “Do it,” she said, her voice a raw whisper. “Whatever it takes.”


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