“Someone has been calling the nurses’ station asking about your son,” he said. “A man. He knew your son’s room number before it was publicly listed.”
The words hit me like ice water.
And suddenly, the note in my pocket made sense.
Run. Now.
I glanced back through the door window. Eli was staring at it, waiting for me.
The same nurse stood beside him, pretending to adjust his IV—but her posture was tense. She caught my eye and mouthed one word:
“Now.”
That’s when I understood.
She didn’t mean run away.
She meant act fast.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Mark:
Where are you? I’m on my way up.
My stomach dropped.
I showed the doctor. His jaw tightened.
“He’s not restricted yet,” I said. “What if he gets here first?”
Within seconds, hospital security was called.
I didn’t wait.
I rushed back into Eli’s room and grabbed his hand.
“I’m right here,” I whispered. “I’m not leaving you.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“Dad said I shouldn’t tell you,” he whispered.
My heart stopped.
“What did he say not to tell me?”
Eli’s voice trembled.
“That he put sleepy medicine in my juice.”
Everything clicked.
The bruises. The sedation. The lies.
This wasn’t an accident.
Soon, security arrived.