Then she passed out.
Everything after that moved quickly. Alan ordered imaging, bloodwork, a psych consult, and police notification. I stood in the hallway with dried blood on my hands and called Daniel Miller.
He answered on the second ring, breathless. “Richard? I’ve been trying to find Emily. She left after dinner and—”
“She’s at St. Mary’s.”
Silence.
Then: “Is she okay?”
The concern in his voice sounded real. Too real. “Get here now,” I said, and hung up.
The police arrived within fifteen minutes. Detective Lena Ortiz—mid-forties, sharp-eyed, efficient—listened as I described the initials, the message, and the way Emily had begged me not to let him know she was alive.
Her reaction wasn’t what I expected.
She asked, “Has your daughter mentioned a storage unit? Or a safety-deposit key?”
I stared at her. “What?”
She pulled a photo from her folder and handed it to me.
