The ice in the plastic basin had melted into lukewarm water.

My skin felt like it was on fire.

Through the haze of the fever, I heard the steady beep of the heart monitor.

Nathan stood by the window, his phone pressed to his ear.

The rain in Seattle was hitting the glass in heavy sheets.

He turned to look at me, his face pale under the bright fluorescent lights.

“Still no answer,” Nathan said.

He hung up and redialed the number.

I tried to speak, but my throat was too dry to form words.

“Water,” I whispered.

Nathan brought a plastic cup with a bendy straw to my lips.

“Hold on, Claire,” he said.

“I’m calling him again.”

He put the call on speakerphone.

The ringing sound filled the sterile room, over and over, until it went to voicemail.

“This is Victor. Leave a message.”

Nathan swore under his breath and shook his head.

“Victor, pick up the damn phone,” Nathan shouted at the beep.

“Claire is in the hospital.”

“The doctors say it is sepsis, Victor.”

“They don’t know if she’s going to make it through the night.”

“Where the hell are you?”

He ended the call and stared at the glowing screen.

I knew where Victor was supposed to be.

He had told me he was in Chicago for an emergency board meeting.

But the truth was much warmer, and much farther south.

At that exact moment, three thousand miles away in Miami, Victor’s phone was vibrating on a teak nightstand.

I know this because I bought the records later.

I paid a private investigator to find every single detail of that night.

The hotel room overlooked the dark ocean.

The sliding glass door was open, letting in the humid Florida air and the smell of salt.

Brooke was lying on the king-sized bed.

Her dark hair was spilled across the white linen sheets.

She was watching Victor with a quiet, patient smile.

Victor stood by the balcony rail, holding a crystal glass of scotch.

His phone lit up again on the table, Nathan’s name flashing across the glass.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” Brooke asked.