And God help Brielle if she had laid a finger on their daughter. Night had fallen by the time Hazel finally dozed off, exhausted from the day’s tests and examinations. The hospital had grown quiet, the daytime bustle replaced by the soft footfalls of the night staff.
Brielle yawned, stretching in the visitor’s chair. You should go home, get some real sleep. I can stay with her tonight.
The suggestion sent a chill down Nate’s spine. After the note, the thought of leaving Hazel alone with Brielle made his skin crawl. I’m fine, he said, keeping his voice neutral.
Why don’t you go? You’ve got that new shipment coming to the boutique tomorrow, right? After Brielle left, kissing Hazel’s forehead and squeezing Nate’s shoulder, he sat in tense silence, watching the minutes tick by. At 1130, his phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. Service entrance, 15 minutes.
Dr. R the service entrance was at the rear of the hospital, dimly lit and used primarily by staff. Nate found Dr. Rourke waiting beside a loading dock. A cigarette between his fingers, though it didn’t appear to have been lit.
Mr. Whitmore, the doctor nodded, pocketing the unused cigarette. Thank you for coming. Cut the crap, Nate said, his voice low and hard.
What the hell was that note about? Dr. Rourke’s face remained impassive. Let’s walk. When they were out of earshot, Dr. Rourke stopped.
I apologize for the dramatic approach, but this isn’t something I could discuss openly. Patient confidentiality has limits, but accusations require evidence. What accusations? Nate demanded, though a part of him already knew.
I believe your daughter is suffering from Munchausen by proxy syndrome, or more accurately, your wife is. The term meant nothing to Nate. What are you talking about? It’s a form of child abuse where a caregiver, usually a mother, deliberately makes a child ill to gain attention or sympathy.
The symptoms Hazel presented with were consistent with an induced allergic reaction. Nate’s jaw clenched. That’s a hell of an accusation, doctor.
I know, and I wouldn’t make it lightly. But your wife, I’ve seen her before. She said she didn’t know you.
She lied. The words were flat, certain. Eight years ago, I worked at a hospital in Georgia.
Brielle Jensen was investigated for suspected child neglect involving her younger sister. The case was dismissed insufficient evidence, and her uncle was well-connected. The name hit Nate hard.
Jensen. Brielle’s maiden name. She told him she was from Florida, an only child.
You’re saying my wife has been lying to me? That she’s hurting our daughter? I’m saying it’s a possibility you need to consider. The test we ran today revealed traces of latex in Hazel’s bloodstream. She has a severe latex allergy, which I suspect your wife knows.
Jesus. Nate turned away, his mind racing. How would she even? It could be anything latex gloves, crushed into food, residue on toys, even exposure to balloons.
The methods vary, but the pattern is the same. Dr. Rourke stepped closer. Mr. Whitmore, you need to understand you’re sleeping beside a loaded gun.
The phrase sent ice through Nate’s veins. He thought of Hazel, so small and vulnerable in that hospital bed. What do I do? The question came out raw, pained.
Be watchful. Document everything. If you see suspicious behavior, report it, but understand that these cases are notoriously difficult to prove.
Dr. Rourke’s expression softened slightly. I’ll keep Hazel here as long as medically justifiable. Run every test I can.
But eventually, she’ll need to go home. Nate nodded, his mind already working ahead. He’d need evidence.
Irrefutable proof. And he’d need help. Thank you, he said finally, extending his hand to the doctor, for looking out for my girl.
Dr. Rourke shook it firmly. I couldn’t save her sister. Maybe I can save her.
As Nate walked back to Hazel’s room, each step felt heavier than the last. The world he’d known the family he’d believed in was crumbling beneath his feet. But from the ruins, something else was emerging.
A cold, implacable resolve. If Brielle was hurting Hazel, there would be no forgiveness. No mercy.
Only justice, delivered with the same ruthlessness she’d shown their innocent daughter. Nate sat in the dimness of Hazel’s hospital room. The rhythmic beeping of monitors the only sound besides her soft breathing.
His mind churned, sifting through memories with new, suspicious eyes .3 months ago. Hazel had developed strange bruises along her arms and back. Brielle had been the one to notice them, calling Nate at work in a panic.
She must have fallen at the playground, Brielle had explained. You know how she climbs everything. Nate had accepted the explanation without question.
Kids got bruises. It happened. But there had been other incidents, a sudden fever that appeared overnight and vanished just as quickly after a dramatic emergency room visit.
Food poisoning that affected only Hazel, despite the whole family eating the same meal. And then there were the changes in Brielle herself. The late-night phone calls she took in the bathroom, voice hushed.
The new gym membership, though she’d always hated exercise. The vague explanations for extra hours at work, despite her paycheck never reflecting over time. His phone buzzed, pulling him from his thoughts.
A text from Brielle. How’s our girl? Should I bring breakfast in the morning? Nate stared at the message, at the casual our girl, and felt something hardened inside him. If Dr. Rourke was right if Brielle had deliberately made Hazel sick, she saw their daughter as nothing more than a tool for attention.
That she’s sleeping. Doc says she’s improving. Don’t worry about breakfast.
Cafeteria’s fine, but he needed to keep Brielle at a distance while he figured out his next move. His mind turned to Declan Reyes, his oldest friend. They’d grown up together in the rougher part of Charleston, fighting side-by-side when necessary.
Watching each other’s backs always. Declan had leveraged a talent with computers into a legitimate security business, but Nate knew he still had connections and skills that operated in gray areas. You up? Nate texted him.
The response came seconds later. For you? Always. What’s up? Need to talk.
It’s about Hazel. And Brielle. Sounds serious.
I could be at Memorial in 20-not here. Too many ears. Tomorrow.
My shop. 7am that I’ll bring coffee. Hang tight, brother.
A soft whimper from the bed drew his attention. Hazel was stirring. Her small face scrunched in discomfort.
Daddy. Her voice was a thread in the darkness. I’m here, pumpkin.
Nate moved to her side, taking her small hand. What’s wrong? My arm itches. Try not to scratch, baby.
It’ll make it worse. When can we go home? The question sent a pang through him. Home where she should be safest might be the very place putting her in danger.
Soon, he promised, smoothing her hair. The doctors just want to make sure you’re all better first. As Hazel drifted back to sleep, Nate returned to his chair, his resolve crystallizing into something cold and unyielding.
If Brielle was guilty, if she’d been systematically hurting their daughter, there would be consequences. Nate Whitmore had grown up fighting for everything he had. He’d built his business from nothing, protected what was his with fierce determination.
That same ruthlessness would now be turned toward a single purpose. Protecting Hazel at no matter the cost. Dawn broke gray and drizzly as Nate unlocked the side door to Whitmore Auto Repair.
He’d left the hospital at five after extracting a promise from Dr. Rourke to call immediately if Hazel’s condition changed. Brielle was heading to the hospital at eight, giving Nate a narrow window to meet with Declan. Tea, exactly seven.
The door opened and Declan Reyes stepped in, two coffee cups in hand and a laptop bag slung over his shoulder. At 35, Declan had the lean build of someone who spent more time behind computers than in gyms. But the military precision in his movements betrayed his four years in the army before starting his security company.