"Tonight. Maybe morning. She has not slept since she called you."
I did not say I was coming.
She held on anyway.
Room 311 smellslike every hallway in every facility where people come to die. Disinfectant. Plastic. Flowers somebody's grandchildren brought four days ago, and have not had the heart to throw out.
I push the door the rest of the way open.
She is small in bed. Smaller than I expected. White hair. Hands folded on the blanket like a child waiting to be told it is time. An IV. An oxygen tube.
Her eyes open before I have made it past the foot of the bed.
"Detective."
"Mrs. Voss."
"Margaret. Please. Sit."
I sit.
Her eyes are clear. Whatever the rest of her body is doing, her eyes have not started doing it yet. She is going to die with her mind intact.
"You came."
"You called."
"I have been calling. The calls did not go through. Someone made sure they did not."
"Who?"
"I do not know his name."
A breath. A second breath.
"Detective. I have to say something I am not going to be able to take back."
"Go ahead."
"You were not born to Frank and Karen Donovan. You were given to them."
"I know. I read my mother's diary this morning."
She closes her eyes for a second.
"Karen kept a diary."
"She did."
"She would. She knew Frank was lying about you the night he came home with you in his arms. She knew it for the rest of her life."
"She loved me anyway."
"I watched her love you. From a distance. Until the night they died."
I let her breathe.
"Who?"
