Chapter 3

I stood up.

"Thomas. You bring up old times now. Don't you find that a little disgusting?"

His face went pale. His lips parted once, twice—nothing came out.

Claire grabbed his arm.

"Let's go. Why are you still talking to her? She's hell-bent on ruining us. She's just bitter—she can't stand to see us happy."

Claire led him out. The door clicked shut.

I stood there. Silence.

Then I changed. Walked into the OR.

This patient was the same as Sophie.

Malpresentation. Placental abnormality. High-risk.

Under the surgical light, I took the hemostat. My hand didn't shake.

Four hours later, the last stitch. Sats came up. Mother and child—stable.

I stepped out. The family was waiting.

"Dr. Vance, thank you," A middle-aged woman took my hand, eyes red. "You saved them both. We’re in your debt."

"It’s the job," I smiled. "Check with the nurse for the recovery schedule, please."

More thanks. Then they were gone.

I pulled my mask down. Started walking.

Two people at the end of the hall.

Martha, who used to be my mother, and Julian.

Martha walked over. No hug. Her eyes ran over my white coat—up, down, and back up again.

"You’ve done well for yourself, Evelyn," she said.

I didn't answer her. Just keep walking.

She came after me. Her hand closed around my wrist. "You’re really going to watch her die? Sophie is nineteen."

Julian stepped into my path. He smelled of expensive cigars.

"Look, Ev," Julian said. "We know we wronged you back then. And We’ve lived with the guilt those year. But Sophie is innocent. She knows nothing."

"She's your family too—can't you at least—"

"I have no family," I said. "They died in a delivery room twenty years ago."

Martha’s mouth tightened. Her grip tightened. Her fingers were cold.

"But I’m your mother," she whispered. "I’m asking you to save my granddaughter. I’ll do anything. I’ll give you whatever you want."

I looked at her hand on my wrist. I didn't move.

"Twenty years ago, I wanted to live," I said. "I wanted my baby to live. I begged you all on the delivery table, but you still gave the last blood to Claire."

"So you're not my mother. Not anymore."

Julian’s face went dark.

"Mom, stop begging her. Look at her—does she look like she'd soften?"

He pulled his mother's arm. His voice went hard. Cold.

"Evelyn Vance. You think I don't have a way to make you?"

"Don't think your reputation will save you. I can destroy you with one finger."

The mask of warmth—gone.

Underneath, the same face I'd seen twenty years ago.

"Go ahead," I said. "Call the press. Tell them the whole story. Start with the unit of O-negative and the signature on the consent form."

I pulled my arm away from Martha.

Twenty years. It was time.