Chapter Four

They were holding printed photos—the wedding picture that had been labeled as proof I was “mentally ill.” My face was smeared red, and next to it someone had written *LIAR.*

“It’s her!” a girl with pink hair screamed. “Elena Rossi! The crazy woman who slandered Larissa!”

I locked in place. My mind went blank. All I could hear was the alarm in my head—my mother, dying. I had to get there. I *had* to.

“Move.” My voice came out hoarse, not my own. “My mother is at the hospital—”

“Oh, look, she’s inventing a new story.” A boy in a baseball cap snorted, holding his phone up to film me. “This time it’s your mom. Next time you’ll say you have cancer?”

The crowd pressed in, a moving wall. My way was blocked.

“I don’t have time to explain—” Heat burned behind my eyes; my voice began to shake. “Please. My mom really is being resuscitated—let me through—”

“Resuscitated?” The pink-haired girl covered her mouth in exaggerated shock. “Wow, so tragic. And you still have time to stand here and act out your sob story for us?”

Someone shoved me.

I wasn’t ready. I lost my balance and fell hard. My palms and knees scraped over rough concrete, burning.

A few muffled giggles.

I lay on the ground, knees bleeding, my stockings torn, but I couldn’t feel pain. I saw my mother’s pale face trembling in front of me. And I gave in again.

“I’m sorry.”

I heard myself say it, flat as if reading lines.

“I lied. I forged the photos. I slandered Ms. Larissa Moreau out of jealousy. It’s all my fault.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Larissa Moreau. I’m sorry, Mr. Caleb Fickett. It was all my delusions and my wrongdoing. I sincerely apologize.”

At last, the boy in the cap whistled.

“See? Was that so hard?”

They scattered like the tide going out—laughing, chatting about where to go for late-night food.

But when I reached St. Vincent Hospital in Queens and ran down the ER corridor, the red light over the resuscitation room door was already off.

A middle-aged nurse in light-blue scrubs stepped out of a side room. When she saw me, she paused.

“Elena?”

“My mom?” I grabbed her arm. “How is she? Margaret Rossi—”

The nurse’s eyes flicked away. Her voice dropped low.

“…I’m sorry for your loss. We did everything we could, but your mother’s heart stopped at four twenty-three a.m.”

I let go.

For a few seconds, the world was utterly quiet. I even thought I’d stopped breathing—stopped having a heartbeat.

Then pain exploded from my chest, flooding my limbs in an instant.

I slid down onto the floor.

The hallway lights were a harsh white. In a daze, I saw an old scene from years ago: a summer evening, my mother making pasta in our cramped kitchen, the smell filling the apartment. I lay on the dining table doing homework while Caleb fixed my broken bike chain nearby. The sunset turned everything a warm gold.

Back then, I thought those evenings would last forever.

The nurse crouched and pressed a folded tissue into my hand. But I had no tears. My tears seemed to have dried up long ago, in those nights before.

“Elena…” The nurse hesitated, but still spoke. “When your mother was lucid at the end… she kept calling your name. She said… no matter why you didn’t make it in time, she didn’t blame you. She said she only hoped you could… live well with your husband, and not wrong yourself.”

The next few days played out like a blurred silent film: contacting the funeral home, signing paperwork, choosing an urn, arranging a simple memorial. My mother didn’t have many friends or relatives. Few came.

The funeral was held at a small church in our old neighborhood. On the altar was the only color photo of her in her youth—back when she was still full-bodied, her smile bright, before life carved exhaustion into her eyes.

After everyone left, I took out my phone and dialed Caleb.

He should come, at least. The last person she still worried about.

The busy signal went on and on before someone finally picked up.

When I spoke, I realized my voice was already shredded beyond recognition.

“My mom died…”

“Oh—really?”

Larissa’s voice. Sweet, light, genuinely entertained—almost delighted.

She drew it out. “Then congratulations?”

My blood turned to ice.

“But,” she continued in the same breezy tone, like chatting about the weather, “Caleb doesn’t have time for you right now. He’s with me at my prenatal checkup. The baby’s very healthy. The doctor says it’s a boy. Oh—do you want to hear his heartbeat?”

In the background, Caleb’s voice came faintly: “Who is it?”

“No one,” Larissa’s voice drifted farther away, smiling. “Wrong number, probably. Honey, we should go in and see the doctor.”

The call cut off.

The next day, I went back to the New York apartment and booked a one-way ticket to Nice, France.

Then I began sorting through every asset in my name—and every asset that still had legal ties to Caleb—and emailed my lawyer for an appointment.

Finally, I pulled out a black USB drive hidden in a false drawer lining, unmarked.

Outside the window, New York blazed with lights.

This city had swallowed our youth, our love, my mother’s life—and now it wanted to swallow what little soul I had left.

But starting now, it wouldn’t.