“Do you know if she still lives in the city?” I asked.

“I shouldn’t be giving out personal information,” she said, looking toward the door.

“Please,” I said, my voice cracking.

“My husband is trying to take my sons.”

“This nurse is the only person who can help me prove what happened to my mother.”

The nurse stared at me for a long moment, then set her clipboard on the bedside table.

She pulled a small notepad from her pocket and wrote down an address in a quiet, residential neighborhood on the outskirts of the city.

“She lives near the old reservoir,” the nurse whispered, slipping the paper into my hand.

“She doesn’t have a phone listed anymore.”

“Thank you,” I said, squeezing the paper in my fist.

Just then, the glass doors to the ICU slid open.

Two men in dark suits stepped into the hallway, scanning the rooms.

They were Daniel’s personal security detail.

I pulled my hood over my head and shrank back into the shadow of the doorway.

The two guards walked with a heavy, synchronized stride.