Chapter 1
If I Didn’t Pay Tonight, Emma Would Die
The doctor didn’t sit down.
He stood in the hallway outside the ICU, tablet in hand, like he was reading off weather.
“If the payment isn’t completed by midnight,” he said, “we stop the surgery prep.”
I blinked, waiting for him to add the part where he reassured me. Where he said we’ll find a way. He didn’t.
“How long does she have?” I asked.
His eyes flicked toward the glass wall.
“Hours,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
The bill in my hand was folded so many times the paper felt soft. I unfolded it anyway, like the numbers might change if I stared hard enough.
$300,000.
I’d seen smaller numbers. Sure. But not for my sister’s life. Not for a sixteen-year-old who still slept with a stuffed rabbit and pretended she wasn’t scared of thunder.
Emma lay behind the glass, pale under fluorescent light. The monitor’s steady beeping was the only thing that made me believe she was still here.
I called everyone.
My manager from the diner. My old roommate. A cousin I hadn’t spoken to in three years. The guy I dated for two months in college who once said, “You can always count on me.”
One by one, people turned into voices that couldn’t meet my eyes.
“Claire… I can’t.” “That’s impossible.” “I’m sorry.”
By 7:40 p.m., my phone was heavy and useless in my palm.
I walked back into Emma’s room and sat beside her bed. Her eyelashes fluttered as she woke, and for a second her smile was still the same smile from when we were kids.
“Did you fix it?” she whispered.
“Working on it,” I said, forcing the words out.
Her gaze sharpened, like she’d learned to read lies from my face.
“You’re scared,” she murmured.
I swallowed. “No. I’m just tired.”
She reached for my hand. Her fingers were cold. “If it’s too much… don’t—”
“Don’t say that,” I snapped, too loud, then softened. “I’m not losing you. Not like this.”
Emma closed her eyes again, but her grip tightened once—like she was trying to give me strength with the little she had left.
I stepped out into the hallway, pressing my back to the wall. My throat burned. I stared at the clock.
8:02 p.m.
Midnight was coming fast.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
If you want her to live, come alone. No police.
My heart lurched. I almost deleted it on instinct.
Then a second message appeared.
Pier 19. 9:00 p.m.
A scam. It had to be.
My thumb hovered over the block button.
Then the third message arrived, and my blood went cold.
Dr. Wilson is her attending physician. She hates needles. You always put candy in her right pocket so she won’t cry.
I stared at the screen, the words blurring.
No one knew that.
No one—except me.
I checked the time again.
8:05 p.m.
I had fifty-five minutes.
I looked through the ICU glass at my sister’s still body and felt something ugly settle in my chest.
Fear. Rage. Hope.
I didn’t have the luxury of being careful.
I typed one word back.
Where’s the money?
Three dots appeared immediately.
Bring nothing. Just yourself.
