He was out of bed and running down the hall before his feet touched the floor, Brielle a step behind him. Hazel sat in her small bed, face contorted in pain, scratching desperately at her arms and neck. Even in the dim glow of her nightlight, Nate could see the angry red wealth spreading across her skin.
Jesus Christ. He breathed, rushing to her side. Hazel, honey, what happened? It itches.
It burns. Hazel wailed, her fingernails leaving white streaks across the inflamed skin. Stop scratching, baby, Brielle said, her voice tight with panic.
She grabbed Hazel’s hands. You’ll make it worse. Nate leaned closer, examining the rash.
It wasn’t like anything he’d seen before Not Poison Ivy or Chicken Pox. The wealth were raised, angry, spreading before his eyes. And then he noticed something else Hazel’s breathing had changed, coming in short, wheezing gasps.
She can’t breathe right, he said, the first tendrils of real fear gripping his chest. Get her shoes. We’re going to the hospital.
Now. Brielle hesitated. Maybe we should call first.
Now, Brielle. The command left no room for debate. Nate scooped Hazel into his arms, her small body burning against his chest.
She wheezed against his shoulder, each breath a struggle. It’s OK, pumpkin, he murmured, trying to keep the terror from his voice. Daddy’s got you.
We’re going to get help. Minutes later, they were in Nate’s truck. Hazel wrapped in a blanket on Brielle’s lap.
Nate drove with single-minded focus, blowing through red lights on empty streets. Every labored breath from the passenger seat tightened the vice around his heart. She’s getting worse, Brielle said, her voice cracking.
Nate, her lips are turning blue. Something primal roared inside him. Not his little girl.
Not Hazel. County Memorial’s emergency entrance loomed ahead. Nate jerked the wheel, the truck’s tires squealing as he pulled up directly to the ambulance bay doors.
He was out in an instant, yanking open Brielle’s door, taking Hazel from her arms. My daughter can’t breathe, he shouted as he burst through the doors, Hazel limp in his arms. Someone help us.
The next few minutes blurred into a chaos of scrubs and stretchers. Nate paced the small curtained area where they waited, his eyes never leaving Hazel as nurses attached monitors and oxygen, but a tall man with salt and pepper hair and a white coat entered. I’m Dr. Vincent Rourke, attending physician, he said, moving directly to Hazel’s bedside.
Let’s see what we have here. Nate watched as the doctor examined Hazel. Has she had allergic reactions before? No, Nate said.
Nothing like this. Dr. Rourke looked up, his eyes moving from Nate to Brielle. Something changed in his expression, so subtle Nate almost missed it.
A hardening around the eyes, a tightening of the jaw. Mrs. Whitmore, Dr. Rourke said, his tone noticeably cooler. We’ve met before, I believe.
Brielle blinked. Have we? I don’t recall, I never forget a face, Dr. Rourke said. He turned back to Hazel.
She’s having a severe allergic reaction. We need to administer epinephrine immediately and run some tests. As the doctor worked, Nate couldn’t shake the feeling that something important had just happened.
He moved to Hazel’s side, taking her small hand in his. Her breathing was already easier with the oxygen, but the rash remained angry and red. You’re going to be okay.
Pumpkin, he promised. Daddy’s here. Over Hazel’s bed, Nate’s eyes met Dr. Rourke’s.
In that brief moment, something passed between them a warning, unspoken but clear. Every protective instinct in Nate’s body went on high alert. Morning light filtered through the hospital blinds, casting stripes across Hazel’s sleeping form.
The epinephrine had worked quickly, her breathing had stabilized, and the angry rash had begun to fade. Nate hadn’t left her side all night, dozing in the uncomfortable visitor’s chair while Brielle went home to gather clean clothes and Hazel’s favorite toy dot doctor. Rourke entered with a tablet in hand, checking Hazel’s vitals.
How is she? Nate asked, his voice rough from lack of sleep. Much better. The antihistamines are doing their job.
We’ll need to keep her for observation today, possibly overnight. Nate nodded, relief washing through him. Do you know what caused it? Dr. Rourke glanced at the door before answering.
We’re running tests. Has your daughter been tested for allergies before? No, she’s never needed it. Mr. Whitmore, could you help me get your daughter changed into a hospital gown? The nurses left one earlier.
Sure. Nate stood, moving to the small cabinet where hospital supplies were stored as he reached for the folded gown. Dr. Rourke stepped close to clothes for casual conversation.
With a subtle movement, he pressed a folded piece of paper into Nate’s hand. Check her for unusual bruising while you change her, he said loudly, then added in a whisper. Read this alone.
Nate’s heart pounded as he slipped the note into his pocket. Together, they changed Hazel into the hospital gown, Nate carefully checking her arms and legs as instructed. There were no bruises, but he couldn’t shake the cold feeling spreading through his gut.
I don’t see anything unusual, he reported. Good. Dr. Rourke made another note.
A nurse will be in shortly to collect blood samples. If you need anything, press the call button. When Brielle arrived, her hair perfectly styled despite the early hour, Hazel brightened.
Mommy, there’s my brave girl, Brielle said, setting a pink backpack on the bed. Look what I brought you, Mr. Flopsy, and your favorite pajamas. Nate watched as Brielle fussed over Hazel.
Everything about her seemed normal, concerned, attentive. It’s something in Dr. Rourke’s manner had planted a seed of doubt. I’m going to grab some coffee, he said, standing.
Want anything? In the hallway, he walked until he found an empty waiting area, then slipped into it, finally pulling the folded note from his pocket. His hands were steady as he opened it, but his pulse hammered in his throat. The handwriting was neat, precise.
Your wife is hurting your child. Meet me privately tonight. Nate read the words three times, his mind refusing to process them.
A mistake. Had to be. Brielle would never hurt Hazel she adored her.
But as he stood there, memories surfaced. Hazel’s unexplained bruises last month that Brielle had attributed to a fall at the playground. The time she’d been sick after a day alone with Brielle, vomiting violently with no apparent cause.
Brielle’s increasing secretiveness, the late night phone calls, his mechanics instinct the ability to sense when something wasn’t right screamed at him now. He’d ignored the warning signs, the small discrepancies. If, and it was still if there was any truth to this accusation, he would find out.