Then my phone rang.
It was Margaret's attending physician.
"Miss Whitfield, your mother has gone into sudden cardiac arrest. It's critical. You need to get to the hospital immediately and sign the consent forms so we can operate ahead of schedule!"
Grief evaporated. I spun around and ran toward the hospital like a woman possessed.
The elevator wouldn't come. I turned and bolted for the stairwell.
I had barely reached the third floor when a swarm of people claiming to be reporters surged out of nowhere, boxing me in on every side.
"Miss Whitfield, we've heard that your obsession with Mr. Henson drove you to a mental breakdown, that you fabricated his death because you couldn't have him. Is that true?"
"Former classmates have come forward saying you're an orphan who grew up picking through trash to survive. Can you confirm?"
"You knew Mr. Henson was married, yet you continued to harass and slander him. What exactly are you after? Care to give the public an explanation?"
Camera flashes erupted in rapid bursts, searing my eyes until I couldn't keep them open.
The barrage of accusations drilled into my skull, filling my ears with a high-pitched ringing, splitting my head apart.