By morning, the hospital room had turned into a strange island of fear, paperwork, and vending machine coffee.

Oliver slept in short bursts. Every time a cart rattled past or laughter echoed too loudly, he jolted awake and searched for me. I stayed in the chair beside him, answering questions from nurses, police, and a calm child services worker named Patrice Hall.

At 7:20 a.m., Mark Vance arrived. I recognized him instantly, before anyone spoke his name. He was older, heavier, dressed like a man trying to look trustworthy: clean jacket, polished shoes, worried expression. But his eyes were the same—cold beneath the performance.

He approached the nurses’ station holding a folder.

“My son is here,” he said. “Oliver Vance. I’m his father.”

Maribel did exactly what Detective Reed instructed. She didn’t point or panic. She asked him to wait and quietly pressed the security button.

Inside the room, Oliver heard his voice. His whole body went rigid. I moved between him and the door.

“He can’t come in,” Oliver whispered. “Mom said don’t let him.”

“He won’t,” I said.

Mark saw me through the glass. Recognition flashed across his face, followed by a smile that made my skin crawl.

“Nora Ellison,” he called. “Still inserting yourself where you don’t belong?”

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