Using a small sewing kit I kept in my pocket, I carefully unpicked the seam of the cushion’s underside.

I slipped the letters deep into the polyester stuffing, smoothing them out so they wouldn’t rustle.

Then, using quick, even stitches, I sewed the seam back together.

It wasn’t perfect, but in the dim light of the nursery, no one would notice.

As I finished the last knot, my thoughts drifted to my mother.

Evelyn Jenkins was bedridden in a specialized care facility in Astoria, suffering from advanced multiple sclerosis.

The facility was incredibly expensive.

It was the main reason I had taken this dangerous job in the first place.

Matteo DeLuca paid his staff three times the market rate, enough to keep my mother in a room with twenty-four-hour medical care.

But it was Mrs. Higgins who had recommended the facility.

She had been the one who helped me expedite the paperwork when my mother was transferred.

At the time, I had thought she was being kind.

Now, a cold dread settled deep in my chest.

Mrs. Higgins knew exactly where my mother was.