Wet footprints led down the hallway toward Room 402.

The melted snow on the linoleum hadn’t even dried yet.

I walked quickly, my heart hammering against my ribs.

We reached the door of Room 402.

The heavy wood door was slightly ajar, a sliver of yellow light spilling onto the dark carpet of the hallway.

I pushed the door open.

The room was warm, the hum of the heart monitor filling the silence.

My mother was sitting up in bed, her face pale, her hands trembling as she held a plastic cup of water.

The visitor’s chair next to her bed was empty, but the green cushion was still indented.

“Mom,” I breathed, rushing to her side.

I took the cup from her shaking hands and set it on the bedside table.

Her skin felt cold, like paper left out in the frost.

“Emily,” she gasped, her eyes darting toward the bathroom door. “He was just here.”

“Who was here, Mom? Julian Bellamy?”

She nodded, a single tear slipping down her hollow cheek.

“He said he was looking for your father’s ledger,” she whispered.