“We don’t have anyone named Tiffany Miller admitted tonight, and there are no appendectomies scheduled for the next few hours,” she informed me.
“Is there a Dr. Randall Hayes on staff here?” I asked.
“No, we don’t have anyone by that name working in this facility,” she replied.
I left the hospital without feeling any anger, but I felt a sharp sense of clarity that was much more dangerous. I opened the family tracking app my mother had forced me to install for safety and saw three blue dots located in an upscale neighborhood called Silver Ridge.
They weren’t at a hospital, but at a high-end steakhouse where people go when they want to be seen spending money. Twenty minutes later, I saw them through the large glass window of the restaurant.
Tiffany was laughing with a glass of wine in her hand, her makeup looking perfect while she leaned back as if she didn’t have a care in the world. My mother was slicing into a large steak, and my stepfather, Bill, was busy pouring more wine for everyone.
They weren’t trying to save a life; they were celebrating the money they thought they were about to take from me.