The screen showed a new text message notification from an unsaved number.

I reached out with a trembling hand and picked up the phone.

The message was a picture of a sandy beach, two cocktails, and a caption.

*Hope you’re getting some sleep, Marissa. We’ll be back Sunday.*

The officer stepped closer, his boots squeaking on the linoleum.

I stared at the image of the two tropical drinks resting on a weathered wooden table.

Behind the glasses, the Atlantic Ocean stretched out in a perfect, mocking blue.

My chest tightened so hard I could barely draw in a breath.

Officer Miller took a step closer to the bed, his black leather duty belt creaking.

“Is that your husband, Mrs. Bellamy?” he asked.

His voice was deep, scraping against the quiet hum of Rowan’s monitors.

“Yes,” I whispered.

My voice sounded like dry paper.

“He’s in Baldwin Head Island,” I said. “With his mother.”

Sarah Jenkins, the social worker, pulled a small yellow notepad from her blazer pocket.

She clicked her pen.

“The hospital staff contacted us about two hours ago,” she said.