I let go of the door handle. My nails had carved crescents into my palms.
I turned and walked to the fire stairwell. The motion-sensor light was out; only the green exit sign glowed. I lit a cigarette—hospital rules be damned—and inhaled until my thoughts sharpened.
Then I called Frank, ex-NYPD detective turned private investigator.
“Maya. This hour? Must be good.”
“I need everything on the woman and child currently at Julian Carter’s bedside in Mount Sinai trauma. Photograph coming. Full work-up—address, finances, timeline with Julian. Most importantly: obtain a biological sample from the boy. Rush DNA. I want results by midnight.”
A short pause. Frank was sharp; he heard the ice beneath my calm.
“Copy. Send the photo to the secure drop. Anything else?”
“Keep eyes on Julian if he wakes. But discreetly.”
I crushed the cigarette against the concrete wall.
From that moment, Julian Carter stopped being my husband.
