Chapter 2 - EIGHT DOLLARS TOO LATE
Sarah Carter counted the money three times.
Fifty dollars.
The pharmacist looked at her apologetically.
“I’m sorry.”
Sarah stared at the prescription.
“How much did you say?”
“Fifty-eight twelve.”
Sarah opened her wallet again.
Nothing.
She searched every pocket.
Two quarters.
Three pennies.
“That’s everything.”
The pharmacist lowered his voice.
“There may be a discount program, but it takes time to process.”
“My daughter has a fever of one hundred and three.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
Sarah immediately regretted saying it.
“I’m sorry.”
She rubbed her forehead.
“I’m just scared.”
Her phone rang.
MRS. DONOVAN.
Sarah answered immediately.
“Is Emily okay?”
Her elderly neighbor sounded frightened.
“Sarah, you need to come home.”
Sarah’s stomach dropped.
“What happened?”
“Emily fainted.”
Sarah ran.
She didn’t wait for another word.
Ten minutes later she burst into her apartment.
Emily lay curled on the couch beneath a blanket.
Her face was pale.
“Mom?”
Sarah dropped beside her.
“I’m here.”
Emily’s lips trembled.
“I’m cold.”
Sarah touched her forehead.
Burning.
Mrs. Donovan stood behind her.
“She needs a hospital.”
Sarah knew.
She also knew her bank account contained fourteen dollars and sixty-seven cents.
None of that mattered anymore.
She called an ambulance.
Across the city, Detective Marcus Hale typed Sarah Carter’s name into a police database.
Walter stood behind him.
“There.”
Marcus clicked.
A driver’s license appeared.
Sarah Carter.
Twenty-nine years old.
Walter stared at the photograph.
Something tightened inside him.
The eyes.
He knew those eyes.
“Zoom in.”
Marcus did.
Walter moved closer.
“My wife had those eyes.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“I know.”
Marcus searched Sarah’s records.
No criminal history.
No marriage license.
One daughter.
Emily Carter.
Then Marcus found Sarah’s birth certificate.
He frowned.
“What?”
Walter asked.
Marcus didn’t answer.
He enlarged the document.
Sarah Carter.
Born March 12, 1997.
Mother: Rachel Carter.
Father: Unknown.
Walter pointed.
“Rachel Carter.”
“You know her?”
“No.”
Marcus typed the name.
Several results appeared.
Then one photograph.
Walter’s face drained of color.
The woman was older.
Heavyset.
Gray hair.
But Walter recognized her.
“Her.”
Marcus turned.
“Who?”
Walter pointed at the screen.
“That woman was at Rebecca’s school.”
“When?”
“The week before Rebecca disappeared.”
Marcus leaned forward.
“You’re sure?”
“She worked in the office.”
Marcus checked the records.
Rachel Carter had never worked for the school.
Walter’s pulse quickened.
“She lied.”
Marcus searched deeper.
Rachel Carter had died six months earlier.
Cause of death: stroke.
Address: a small town seventy miles outside Chicago.
Walter whispered, “Sarah said the locket belonged to her mother.”
Marcus looked at him.
“If Rachel Carter had your daughter’s locket…”
Walter finished the sentence.
“She knew what happened to Rebecca.”
Marcus’s phone rang.
He answered.
His expression changed.
“Where?”
Walter stepped closer.
“What is it?”
Marcus hung up.
“An ambulance was called to Sarah Carter’s apartment.”
Walter grabbed his coat.
They reached Mercy General Hospital twenty-five minutes later.
Sarah was standing outside the pediatric emergency room.
She saw Walter.
Her face hardened.
“You.”
Walter stopped.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Not now.”
“Please.”
“My daughter can barely breathe.”
Walter looked through the glass doors.
A small girl lay surrounded by nurses.
He immediately understood.
He pulled out his wallet.
“Take this.”
Sarah stared at the cash.
Hundreds.
“I don’t want your money.”
“I should have given you eight dollars.”
“You should have treated me like a human being.”
Walter had no defense.
“You’re right.”
Sarah turned away.
Walter removed the locket from his pocket.
“Where did your mother get this?”
Sarah froze.
She looked at it.
“My mother gave it to me before she died.”
“What was her name?”
“Rachel.”
Walter and Marcus exchanged a glance.
Sarah noticed.
“What?”
Walter’s voice broke.
“That necklace belonged to my daughter.”
Sarah stared at him.
“That’s impossible.”
“My daughter disappeared thirty-one years ago.”
Sarah stepped backward.
“My mother owned that necklace my whole life.”
Marcus spoke gently.
“Sarah, did Rachel ever tell you where you were born?”
“Chicago.”
“Did she ever show you photographs of herself pregnant?”
Sarah frowned.
“What kind of question is that?”
Then the emergency-room doors opened.
A doctor approached.
“Ms. Carter?”
Sarah rushed forward.
The doctor’s face was serious.
“Emily’s infection is worse than we expected.”
Sarah’s knees weakened.
“Can you help her?”
“We’re starting treatment.”
Then he hesitated.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“Her bloodwork showed an unusual genetic marker.”
Sarah looked confused.
The doctor glanced at Walter.
“We need to ask about your family medical history.”
Sarah whispered, “I don’t know my family medical history.”
Walter stared at her.
May you like
Marcus slowly said, “Maybe we’re about to find out.”
But across the parking lot, inside a gray SUV, someone lifted a camera and photographed all three of them.
