When my daughter was in the ER after an accident, a police officer entered the room. He pulled me aside into the hallway. “Ma’am, do you actually know who your husband really is?” “Why would you ask me that?” My heart pounded. He leaned closer and whispered, “Because the truth is…”
Chapter 1: The Killer Photo
The sterile, fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor hummed with a low, incessant vibration that seemed to match the frantic beating of my heart. The smell of industrial bleach and rubbing alcohol coated the back of my throat. I stood just outside the sliding glass doors of the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, my hands clamped tightly over my mouth, my entire body shaking with the shock of the last three hours.
My eight-year-old daughter, Emma, was lying in a hospital bed a few feet away. She was hooked up to a terrifying array of monitors, her left arm encased in a heavy cast, a bandage wrapping her forehead where they had stitched a deep laceration.
