During my overnight shift, my husband, my sister, and my three-year-old daughter were wheeled into the ER unconscious. When I tried to run toward them, a colleague gently grabbed my arm and whispered, “You can’t go in there right now.” My whole body shook. “Why not?” He kept his eyes lowered and said, “I’ll tell you everything… once the police get here.”

Because she was now a victim, too. That didn’t help.

Then reality struck me like a punch—

The garage door code.
Shared with Logan’s brother.
Liam.

“L-Liam Pierce,” I whispered. “Logan’s brother. They argued. Logan cut him off financially. Liam blamed me. He said I ‘took his brother away.’”

Sato’s eyes sharpened. “We’ll need his address.”

Before I could answer, the hospital intercom blared:

“Code Blue, Pediatric Trauma One.”

The world went silent except for the roaring in my ears.

I didn’t remember standing. Suddenly I was running for the door, but Lucas blocked it like a wall.

“That’s my baby!” I screamed.

“You can’t go in,” Detective Sato said sharply. “If this was intentional poisoning, your involvement could compromise the case.”

I wanted to tear the door off its hinges.
I wanted blood.
I wanted answers.

But above all, I wanted my daughter alive.

The hallway filled with the terrible, familiar rhythm of a code:

“Start compressions!”
“Push epi!”
“Two minutes!”

These were words I’d said hundreds of times.
Tonight, they were for my child.

Then—
Silence.

A nurse emerged moments later. She lifted her visor and found me with her eyes.