Page 33 of Open Secrets
I clutched August tighter against me, voice breaking. “What tests? What do you think it is?”
He exhaled slowly, choosing his words with surgeon-like precision. “The next step is to admit her to the hospital so our pediatric specialists can do more testing. That will include more detailed blood work, and likely a bone marrow test to see exactly what’s happening with her blood cells.”
His tone dipped lower, gentler, but it felt like a knife. “Right now, one possibility is a blood cancer. Like leukemia. I don’t want to jump ahead until the specialists confirm, but the pattern we’re seeing is not something simple like a virus. We need to take this very seriously and move quickly.”
The floor tilted under me. My vision narrowed. My lips parted, but for a long second nothing came out. Then, barely a whisper: “Cancer.” My throat burned as the word left me. “You think she has cancer.”
The doctor didn’t answer, not directly. His silence was confirmation enough, a weight heavier than anything I’d ever carried. My chest ached like my own lungs couldn’t pull air.
They moved us into a private room. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly above us, bright and sterile. Rain lay pale against the sheets, lashes fanned against skin that looked almost translucent. She was still asleep, IV taped to her arm, the rhythmic beep of the monitor the only reassurance she was still here.
I braced for the quiet, for time alone with her, for Stella—Lyle’s mom—to sweep the others home and keep them safe until we knew more.
But the door opened, and instead of the nurse, my children filed in one by one—Remi and Taylor first, faces pale, eyes wide in the clean hospital light. They looked smaller than they should, all of them, their confidence and noise left behind the moment they crossed the threshold.
For a second, all I could do was stare, caught between shock and dread. “What are you doing here?” my voice cracked even though I tried to keep it steady.
“Grandma said we should come.” Taylor whispered it, chin trembling.
What the hell was she thinking. I had been about to call my dad so he could drive August home.
My stomach twisted. They were too young for this. Too young to understand words like cancer, bone marrow, counts and labs and survival rates. But old enough to understand that something was very, very wrong.
Stella finally walked in, silent as always, her face unreadable. She didn’t look at me, didn’t say a word, just drifted straight to Rain’s bedside. Her hand smoothed over Rain’s hair, soft and slow, like she’d done this a thousand times before. She bent, pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingered a beat, and then—just like that—turned on her heel and headed for the door.
My heart jerked. What the hell?
“Stay here,” I told the kids, voice sharp enough to make them freeze. I was already moving, already chasing. “Stella!”
She was halfway down the hall by the time I caught up, my flats squeaking against the linoleum. “Where are you going?” I demanded, breathless.
“Home.” She didn’t even slow.
I stepped in front of her, forced her to look at me. My pulse pounded in my ears. “Home? Your granddaughter might have cancer, and you’re what—going to bingo?”
That finally stopped her. Her spine stiffened, shoulders snapped straight, her chin lifted with that military-wife pride she wore. Her eyes burned cold when they found mine. “Do not take that tone with me. Not you.”
“Excuse me?” My voice spiked, incredulous.
Her lips thinned, pressed tight before she let them loose like a knife. “This is because of you.”
I blinked, staggered, then shook my head hard. “I brought her to the ER yesterday. They said it was just—”
“Not that.” Her voice cut me clean in half. “When you take a life, God sees. And God remembers. You killed one grandbaby. He’s coming for the other.”
The words landed like a slap, ringing in my skull. My mouth dropped open.
She leaned in, almost hissing now, eyes gleaming with cruel conviction. “Yes, Maria. I know. My daughter told me.”
She stressed it like a blade twist. Daughter. Not son. Not Lyle. Anna.
Her mouth twisted as she delivered the final blow. “You caused this.”
The words were tossed like garbage, casual but cutting, and then she turned—heels clicking, shoulders squared—and walked away without looking back.
I was left rooted in the corridor, the fluorescent lights buzzing above, the sterile air burning my throat. For a moment I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but feel the echo of her venom rattling inside me.
Then—
