The video metadata led us to a private hospital outside Philadelphia.

The facility had changed names three times.

Room 317 had no current patient listed.

We entered under a court order secured by one federal prosecutor Evelyn trusted.

The room was empty.

But someone had lived there recently.

A cup of tea was still warm.

A book lay open.

On the windowsill sat a small wooden horse.

My mother had carved one for me when I was six.

I picked it up.

Underneath were scratched three initials.

M.E.R.

Mariana.

Elena.

Rafael.

Our family.

“She was here,” I whispered.

Andrew checked the closet.

Inside hung a pale blue sweater.

I pressed it to my face.

It smelled faintly of lavender.

My mother’s perfume.

A nurse appeared in the doorway.

When she saw us, she froze.

“Where is the woman from this room?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

Andrew stepped closer.

“Don’t lie.”

The nurse looked at his bandaged shoulder.

“She was moved before dawn.”

“By whom?”

“Senator Dane’s security.”

My phone rang.

Margaret.

I answered.

Her voice was calm.

“You opened the box.”

“Where is my mother?”

“Alive.”

Every muscle in my body tightened.

Andrew heard her.

His expression changed.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“The Escalante Trust.”

“No.”

“Then Elena disappears permanently.”

I walked to the window.

“How do I know she’s alive?”

A video call came through.

My mother appeared on the screen.

Older.

Thin.

But alive.

Her eyes searched the camera.

Then she whispered my childhood nickname.

“Little star?”

My knees almost gave out.

“Mom.”

A hand pulled her away.

Margaret returned.

“Midnight tomorrow.”

“Transfer control of the trust to Andrew.”

Andrew shook his head immediately.

“No.”

Margaret laughed softly.

“You finally found a conscience.”

He stepped toward the phone.

“I won’t sign.”

“You won’t have to.”

“Mariana will.”

The call ended.

I stared at the dark screen.

Andrew touched my arm.

I pulled away.

“We’ll get her back,” he said.

“You don’t know that.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes.”

I faced him.

“Would you die for her?”

He did not hesitate.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I handed him Margaret’s number.

“Call your mother.”

He frowned.

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