Chapter 3 - The Night I Couldn't Remember
The ambulance arrived twelve minutes later.
I remember the paramedic's face.
Her name was Jasmine.
She looked younger than me, but her hands were steady as she checked my blood pressure and listened to my baby's heartbeat.
When the portable monitor finally picked up that rapid, beautiful rhythm, I burst into tears.
Jasmine glanced at me.
"That's a strong heartbeat, Mom."
Mom.
The word almost broke me.
For months, Linda had told me I'd be a terrible mother.
Ryan said my emotional instability would make me dangerous.
Dr. Keller had once asked whether I would consider signing temporary custody papers before delivery.
I had refused.
That evening, Ryan left me alone in the bedroom without dinner.
Now, hearing my child's heartbeat, I remembered something they'd spent months trying to make me forget.
I was already her mother.
And I had protected her every day I could.
My father rode beside me in the ambulance.
He held my hand while Chicago traffic moved outside the windows.
Neither of us spoke for several minutes.
Then he asked quietly, "Why didn't you tell me?"
I stared at the ceiling.
"Because Ryan said you'd kill him."
Dad exhaled.
"And you believed him."
"I believed you might."
He didn't answer.
I turned my head.
"I was scared he'd use that against you. He kept saying he had proof of things you'd done before you retired."
My father's expression changed.
"What proof?"
"I don't know."
"Did he show you anything?"
"Photographs. Documents. Names."
"Which names?"
I swallowed.
"One was Salvatore Greco."
Dad went completely still.
I'd heard that name only once before.
When I was twelve, my father came home after midnight and locked himself in his office.
The next morning, my mother told me never to repeat the name Salvatore Greco inside our house.
I didn't know why.
And I had never asked.
Dad looked through the ambulance window.
"Ryan has been talking about Greco?"
I nodded.
"Since February."
My father lowered his head.
I could almost see pieces moving behind his eyes.
"Emily, I need you to tell me about February twelfth."
My throat tightened.
"I don't remember much."
"Start with what you do remember."
I closed my eyes.
Ryan had told me we were going to dinner.
He seemed unusually affectionate that evening.
He bought flowers.
He apologized for the arguments we'd been having.
He even told me we could visit Dad the following weekend.
We drove downtown.
I remember entering a hotel restaurant.
I remember a waiter bringing sparkling water.
Then nothing.
Until I woke in a room upstairs.
There was blood on my sleeve.
My shoes were missing.
And Ryan stood beside the window.
He told me I'd suffered a breakdown.
He said I'd attacked a man who tried to help me.
When I demanded to know who the man was, Ryan showed me a picture on his phone.
A middle-aged stranger lying on the floor.
Blood beneath his head.
Ryan said the man was in critical condition.
He told me he'd cleaned up the situation.
Paid people.
Made sure nobody called the police.
And then he said something I'd never forgotten.
"If your father finds out, they'll trace it back to his old business. You'll destroy him, Emily."
My father listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
I hadn't seen him look that old in years.
"Sweetheart," he said, "did you see yourself hurt that man?"
"No."
"Did you remember an argument?"
"No."
"Did you remember holding a weapon?"
I shook my head.
"Then you don't know that you hurt anyone."
"But there was blood."
"That doesn't prove what Ryan said."
I wanted to believe him.
God, I wanted to believe him.
At the hospital, doctors moved quickly.
Blood tests.
An ultrasound.
Photographs of my injuries.
Questions about medication.
A social worker introduced herself and asked whether I had somewhere safe to go.
My father answered immediately.
"Home."
She looked at me.
"Emily, I need to hear from you."
I hesitated.
Then I said, "I want to go with my dad."
Her expression softened.
"Okay."
For the first time in months, somebody had asked what I wanted.
Later that evening, while the doctors monitored my baby, Dad stepped into the hallway to speak with Elena.
I heard only fragments.
"Preserve everything."
"Medical records."
"Hotel footage."
"Greco."
Then his voice changed.
"What do you mean, he's alive?"
My father listened.
He looked through the glass door at me.
Then he said something that made my entire body turn cold.
May you like
"That's impossible. I buried Salvatore Greco eleven years ago."
And outside my hospital room, someone began screaming.
