“I don’t know. It showed up about two months ago. I thought it was a gift. Things arrive here all the time without cards. Maybe from one of Victor’s contacts… or his mother.”
Two months.
Exactly when the nightmare began.
Clara slipped the cushion into a clinical evidence bag without another word. As she stepped into the hallway, a sharp voice stopped her.
“What do you think you’re doing with that?”
Margaret stood there again.
But this time, she didn’t look offended.
She looked afraid.
“I’m examining everything that touches the child’s skin,” Clara replied calmly.
“That cushion is very expensive. You have no right to damage it.”
Margaret reached for it. Clara held firm.
For a brief, tense moment, they struggled—absurdly out of place in that luxurious corridor.
Then suddenly, Margaret let go.
She took a step back.
And stared at Clara—not like she feared a poor nurse…
…but like she feared what had just been uncovered.
At the end of the hallway, Victor had seen everything.
And for the first time—
his mother’s eyes held no arrogance.
Only fear.