Chapter 3
Hannah dropped to her knees.
“No. No, no, no.”
The brass hinge had cracked.
A tiny spring lay loose inside.
She looked toward the hallway.
Empty.
No one had seen.
The box had clearly been sitting untouched for years.
She could place it back.
Turn it slightly.
Maybe nobody would notice for months.
Hannah stared at her daughter.
Ellie stared back.
Hannah exhaled.
“Great. You’re already judging me.”
She pulled a maintenance slip from her clipboard and wrote:
Mr. Whitmore,
My daughter accidentally pulled this from the shelf while I was cleaning. The hinge and mechanism were damaged. I am responsible. I can pay for the repair in installments or repair it myself if you prefer.
I’m sorry.
Hannah Mercer
Night cleaning crew
She wrote her phone number beneath it.
Across the hall, Ethan stared at the note.
She thought nobody was watching.
That mattered more than it should have.
Then Ellie coughed.
Hannah looked up.
The second cough was different.
Harsh.
Barking.
Ellie’s small chest pulled sharply inward as she tried to breathe.
Hannah dropped the pen.
“Ellie?”
Another breath.
A terrible high-pitched whistle.
Hannah scooped her up.
“No, no. Baby, look at Mama.”
Ellie coughed again.
Hannah’s hands began shaking.
She grabbed her phone but dropped it.
“Come on. Come on.”
The conference-room door opened.
Hannah spun around.
A man stepped into the light.
Tall.
Dark coat.
Face she recognized immediately.
Ethan Whitmore.
Her stomach dropped.
“Oh God.”
His eyes were on Ellie.
“I’m sorry,” Hannah blurted. “I know she shouldn’t be here. I know. I’ll leave right now. I can finish tomorrow, I swear—”
“What hospital?”
Hannah stopped.
“What?”
“What hospital do you use?”
Ellie made the thin whistling sound again.
“Rivergate Children’s.”
“My car is downstairs.”
“I can call—”
“An ambulance may take longer than the drive. Come on.”
Hannah stared at him.
Everything about this was wrong.
She had brought a baby into a restricted workplace.
Broken something in his office.
Been caught personally by the CEO.
But Ellie coughed again.
Nothing else mattered.
In the elevator, Hannah called the pediatric nurse line.
The nurse listened to Ellie’s breathing through the phone.
“It sounds like croup. Cold air sometimes reduces the swelling temporarily. Get her evaluated immediately.”
Ethan pushed through the garage door.
His sedan was parked near the elevator.
When they climbed inside, he rolled down every window.
December air exploded through the car.
Hannah wrapped Ellie inside her coat.
“Breathe, baby.”
Ethan drove.
Not recklessly.
Not like someone in a movie.
Steady.
Controlled.
He moved through the nearly empty streets while freezing wind whipped through the car.
Hannah held Ellie against her chest.
Near the river, the whistle grew quieter.
Then quieter again.
Hannah closed her eyes.
“That’s it,” she whispered. “Good girl.”
In the front seat, Ethan’s hands tightened around the steering wheel.
He was listening too.
Two strangers drove through Christmas lights in a freezing car, both waiting for the same little girl to take her next breath.
At Rivergate Children’s Hospital, a nurse rushed Ellie back.
Hannah turned once.
Ethan remained in the waiting room.
“You don’t have to stay,” she said.
“I know.”
Three hours later, Ellie was sleeping peacefully after receiving medication.
The doctor smiled.
“She’ll be okay.”
Hannah almost collapsed with relief.
When she returned to the waiting room, Ethan was still there.
His coat lay folded beside him.
A Christmas movie played silently on the television.
He stood.
“She okay?”
“Yes.”
One word.
That was all Hannah could manage.
The hospital loaned them an infant car seat.
Ethan spent several minutes attempting to install it before Hannah gently moved his hands aside.
“Other direction.”
“I knew that.”
“No, you didn’t.”
For one second, she thought she saw him smile.
On the drive home, Hannah’s fear returned.
Not for Ellie.
For tomorrow.
Finally she asked, “Are you going to report me?”
Ethan stared through the windshield.
A red light reflected across his face.
“I haven’t decided.”
Hannah looked away.
It was not cruel.
It was worse.
It was honest.
Her duplex stood in a working-class neighborhood north of downtown.
Plastic covered one cracked front window.
A strand of Christmas lights hung crookedly over the porch, only half of them working.
Ethan noticed.
He said nothing.
Hannah lifted Ellie from the car.
“Thank you for helping her.”
He nodded.
“And the music box—”
“Not tonight.”
May you like
She hesitated.
Then carried her daughter inside.
