“They need to speak with you about that video.”

My heart hammered against my ribs.

If the police got involved, my mother would know.

She would destroy whatever evidence she had left.

She had a key to our apartment, and she had a key to my father’s old house where she lived alone.

I remembered her talking about how she wanted to raise the baby in the suburbs.

She had complained about our small Pilsen apartment for months.

“A child needs a real yard,” she had said.

“A child needs a grandmother who knows how to care for them.”

I wiped my face with my wet hands.

I needed to find out what else she had done.

If she had access to cyanide, what else did she have in that house?

I looked toward the closed blinds of the trauma room.

The red light above the door was still glowing.

A nurse came out, holding a bloody syringe.

“How is she?” I demanded.

“The baby’s heart rate is stabilizing slightly,” she said quickly.

“But your wife is still unconscious.”

“Can I see her?”