Chapter 4 — The Letter Erin Left Behind
I stopped walking.
The firefighter behind us nearly collided with me.
“Keep moving!”
I stared at Maisie.
“What did you say?”
“Not here.”
“You don’t get to say something like that and then—”
A train horn sounded far behind us.
The firefighter grabbed my shoulder.
“Move!”
We hurried through the tunnel.
Maisie struggled with every step.
By the time we reached the emergency stairwell, sweat covered her face.
I wanted answers.
She needed help.
For once, I chose the second thing.
At the station, paramedics tried to examine her leg.
Maisie refused until I promised not to leave.
That promise came too quickly.
A medic cut the fabric near her thigh.
The skin around the prosthetic socket was raw and infected.
“How long has it looked like this?” the medic asked.
“Two days.”
The medic stared at her.
“It’s been longer than two days.”
Maisie shrugged.
“I’m bad at calendars.”
She was taken to St. Vincent’s Hospital.
I rode in the ambulance.
At intake, a nurse asked for her guardian.
Maisie gave a fake name.
I knew because she hesitated before saying it.
“June Vale.”
“Relationship?”
“Aunt.”
“Phone number?”
Maisie recited one.
The nurse dialed.
Disconnected.
The nurse’s expression changed.
Maisie saw it.
“I probably said one digit wrong.”
“You said it twice,” the nurse replied gently.
A hospital social worker was called.
Maisie looked at me as though I had betrayed her.
“I didn’t call them.”
“But you brought me here.”
“You could lose your leg.”
“I already lost one.”
The room fell silent.
She turned her face toward the wall.
The social worker arrived twenty minutes later.
Her name was Dana Brooks. Mid-forties. Tired eyes. Kind voice.
“Maisie, where have you been staying?”
“Home.”
“Your mother’s apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“No.”
“Who is with you?”
Maisie pulled the blanket higher.
Dana waited.
Maisie remained silent.
Then Dana looked at me.
“How do you know her?”
“I met her at the train station.”
The answer sounded terrible out loud.
Dana’s eyebrows lifted.
Maisie reached into her backpack.
“She knew my mother.”
“No,” I said. “I rescued her once. Years ago.”
Maisie removed a sealed envelope.
My name was written across the front.
ROWAN MERCER
The handwriting was uneven.
My hands went cold.
“When did your mother write this?”
“Three weeks before she died.”
“Why didn’t you give it to me earlier?”
“I wanted to know what kind of person you were first.”
“And?”
She looked at me.
“I’m still deciding.”
Dana asked to speak with Maisie privately.
I stepped into the hallway with the envelope.
I should have opened it immediately.
Instead, I stood beside a vending machine for ten full minutes.
My wife’s name had not been spoken by anyone new in years.
People who knew Hannah had learned not to mention her around me.
People who didn’t know her had no reason to.
I broke the seal.
Inside was a four-page letter.
The first line read:
Rowan, I owe you the truth about the night Hannah died.
My knees weakened.
I sat in a plastic chair.
Erin wrote that she had worked for a private medical transportation company owned by Adrian Cross, the distracted driver who caused the crash.
According to the official report, Adrian had been texting.
Erin claimed he had actually been transporting confidential patient files and driving under the influence of prescription stimulants supplied by his own company.
She had evidence.
She had also written something worse.
Adrian was not alone in the car.
I read the next line twice.
The passenger was your brother, Caleb.
My hands began to shake.
Caleb had stood beside me at Hannah’s funeral.
May you like
He had held me while I cried.
And for three years, he had never said a word.
