Inside, the room was filled with doctors, their backs to us as they worked over the bed.

And on the table near the window, the small drawing of the yellow house lay torn in two.

The wind from the open window blew the pieces across the floor, where they settled in the dust.

I looked at the monitor, the green line flat and still.

And then, a hand touched my shoulder from behind.

I turned, expecting to see Paul or the police.

But the man standing there wore a heavy wool coat, his face covered in shadow.

He held a small black envelope in his hand, the paper damp from the snow.

“She wanted you to have this,” he said.

The voice was low, unfamiliar, and cold.

Before I could speak, he turned and walked down the hall, his footsteps fading into the noise of the emergency.

I looked at the envelope in my hand, the wax seal broken.

Inside, a single piece of paper was folded twice.

I opened it, the light from the corridor hitting the hurried handwriting.

“Don’t trust Ethan,” the note read.